My Brother Wore Black
by Wyoming Outlaw
Summary: With the help of an unlikely ally, Dietrich survives his final battle of the War. Dietrich faces challenges which rival any he has ever encountered before as he struggles to navigate a post-war Germany. (If you are kind enough to post a review, please do not include any spoilers in your comments.)
1. Prologue

**A Thousand may Fall at your Side, **

**And Ten Thousand at your Right Hand,**

**But it Shall not Come Near You.**

-Psalms 91:7

Troy gripped the .50 caliber machine gun as the Jeep jolted over the gutted road. Ahead of him was a box ambulance. Troy couldn't help mentally urging the ambulance's driver to drive faster, even though he knew Tully was already pushing the vehicle beyond its designed capabilities. The ambulance's canvas sides swayed as it took the turns too fast, and it had almost tipped over as it had swerved to avoid a crater.

Troy had wanted a smaller ambulance, one which was more maneuverable, but this was the only one he had been able to requisition.

Well, he hadn't quite requisitioned the ambulance. He had "borrowed" it.

Okay, so he had stolen it when it was left with the engine running.

Troy hadn't cared about this small technicality, given that in the end, he had gotten possession of the ambulance and had managed to leave without being questioned. Used to accomplishing things on his own terms, Troy had dismissed the act without a second thought. Any potential consequences could be dealt with later.

It would have been more practical, not to mention faster, to search with just the Jeeps. The Jeeps could have advanced over the gutted terrain easily, and a second Jeep would have provided additional firepower. But two Jeeps would not have been able to carry six men, one of them probably near death.

And, the option of having the thief drive the ambulance alone and lead the way? Troy didn't trust him for a New York second. The thief would take the first chance he saw to escape.

Troy had been forced to split his team: Hitch with him, Tully driving the ambulance with Moffitt accompanying him. Troy had placed the thief between them as insurance. If the guy was smart, he'd stay right where he was.

Running with only one .50 caliber this late in the day was reckless, or foolhardy. Or both, depending on how one viewed it. Moffitt had raised a single eyebrow when Troy had given the order, leaving no doubt he believed it to be the latter. Tully and Hitch had glanced at each other, silently agreeing with Moffitt. Troy gave his team credit, though, for accepting his order while keeping their wisdom to themselves.

He could admit the need for the ambulance was a gamble. The bastard private, the thief, had insisted the German officer had been dead when the lighter was stolen. And, even if Dietrich had still been alive then, he likely had been mortally wounded. If Dietrich hadn't been dead, or very near it, Troy knew the private wouldn't have gotten the lighter at all. Or even survived the encounter himself, period.

Though, despite all he "knew", there was a part of Troy, a big part, which couldn't accept the German officer's death. He was willing to put all his money on one number and roll the dice to prove himself right.

If Dietrich was indeed dead, Troy could sleep well with the knowledge he had attempted to save the officer and repay the life debt he owed him. At the end of it, Troy would hoist a beer and toast Dietrich. Then, he could shove his memories of the German aside. Just as he had done with so many fallen others during the war.

On high alert, Troy scanned the forest, constantly sweeping from the sides, and then to the sides and to the back. They were going deeper into former German territory. The Allies had sped through the area. There was the strong possibility it had not been completely cleared of Germans. Troy knew well enough how one lone German could have a lethal impact on his small team. He had lost one man when he had first encountered Dietrich in the desert. With the war down to its final days, he was unwilling to lose another team member.

Four men were not enough for this mission. Troy discounted the thief. He would be useful as tits on a bull in a fight. His only value was of knowing Dietrich's location. Troy could have tried to recruit more men, but the task would have been laughable. What other American soldier would have willingly accompanied them to search a "hot" area for a probably dead German officer?

He could have ordered them on the mission, but Troy hadn't bothered. Used to skirting the limits of authority, he knew where the lines were. And, he knew he had already crossed them. His superior officers would hardly support the inherent risks of a mission they would have considered Troy's own personal folly.

Troy scanned the darkening forest for any movement, any clue, any unlikely sign of life. The farther they drove, the more exasperated he became. They had already stopped twice. Both times had proven to be dead ends. He suspected the thief was deliberately misleading them, stalling until darkness fell when he mistakenly believed they would abandon the search.

Troy's frustration finally exploded.

He rapped Hitch on the shoulder and indicated for him to pull up alongside the ambulance. The more nimble Jeep accelerated quickly, and Troy waved for Tully to halt.

Tully did as he was ordered and before the ambulance had even jerked to a full stop, Troy was at its side. He climbed up on the running board and leaned in.

"This is the last time I'm going to ask you: Where is he?" Troy growled.

The thief didn't make eye contact. Instead, he stared out the windshield and said nothing.

Troy reached in and grabbed the outsider by his uniform collar, almost pulling him across Tully.

"I'm running out of patience and you're running out of time. Do I need to provide you with a little inspiration?"

The man's eyes grew wide.

"I'm doing the best I can! I was there hours ago, and then only for a few minutes. Everything looks different now that it's getting darker, and we're coming from a different direction. Maybe we should try tomorrow when it's lighter?"

Troy ignored the suggestion. "How far of a march was it from there to the operations center?"

"I dunno. Maybe a two-three hour slow march?" the thief responded slowly, as if wary of how much factual information he should provide.

Troy thought for a moment. "Tully, turn around and head back the other way. We've gone too far. The guy's perspective is backwards. He should recognize it coming from this direction." Troy looked at the thief, his eyes narrowing. "In case you're trying to stall, I've already told you: We're not stopping until we find him. I don't care if it takes all night."

Troy jumped down and resumed his spot at the .50 and indicated for Tully to continue driving.

The ambulance lurched forward, nearly throwing the two passengers against the dashboard.

"Tully?" Moffitt asked once he had pushed himself back into his seat.

Tully bit down hard on his matchstick and grunted. "Sorry, Sarge. This thing drives like she's got sand in her gearbox."

"Doubtful, but I appreciate the analogy. Not the finest vehicle you've ever driven, I'm sure."

Tully grunted again, his eyes on the road.

"Ah, well. I'd wager it's not the worst either." Moffitt grinned. "Best Troy could do on short notice for his impromptu mission of mercy, I'm sure."

Tully took one eye from the road and turned it Moffitt's way. "Is that what we're calling this?"

Moffitt paused. He suspected even Troy wouldn't know quite what to call their current endeavor.

"I suppose it's as good of a thing to title this little adventure as any," he said, finally. "You can't always quite put a name to everything, you know."

Tully nodded his agreement and said nothing else.

There was nothing else to be said. They all knew it. Troy had always had an odd affinity for Dietrich, one which Moffitt would freely admit he didn't understand. However, understood or not, if something was important to one of them, it was important to all of them. Over the years they had all been together it was the way things had always had been.

Why should it be any different at the end of it all?

Moffitt settled back in his seat and once again took up his watch on the darkening forest. Troy was likely also keeping watch, for any signs of Dietrich, and for any signs of danger. Moffitt's attention was primarily on looking for danger.

If he had to bet, he had a good idea of which they were going to find first.

"Sarge, isn't there anything ya can do? He's gone nuts. He's gonna get us all killed. And for what? Some dead Kraut officer he believes is still alive. How many times do I hafta tell ya? The guy was dead when I left him. This is nothing but a wild goose chase!"

Mindful he was being addressed, Moffitt slowly moved his gaze from the forest to the thief. He was feeling languid, still feeling the unfortunate effect of one too many whiskey and sodas at the beer garden. The mind numbing, mostly silent, journey hadn't helped, and with the rocking of the ambulance over the rutted road he had found it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

Moffitt looked at their passenger and yawned in the face of his agitation. Tully predictably said nothing.

"What's wrong with you all?" The thief's voice rose, incredulous as he looked from Moffitt to Tully. "Don't you care that he's going to get you killed? For nothing?"

Moffitt stifled another yawn. "Sorry old man. Troy gets like this when he's focused. Much like a dog worrying a bone. So it's best we find Dietrich, sooner rather than later. There's not much I can do." He gave the man a pointed look. "Actually it all seems rather dependent upon you, doesn't it?"

"I'll tell you what I told your nutso sergeant: I'm doing the best I can!"

"Oh, I'm sure," Moffitt said, dryly. "But a word of advice? You may wish to do it a little faster. Then, we can all get back to our original plans for the evening."

Moffitt allowed his mind to wander for just a moment to how wished his night would have gone. He curtailed the thoughts quickly. It hardly seemed worthwhile to dwell on it too much, seeing as how was crammed into the cab of the ambulance with two other men for what seemed to be the foreseeable future.

"Is that the Kraut's name? Dietrich?" the thief asked.

"Yes."

"What's so special about him?"

Moffitt forced himself not to sigh. He had asked Troy the same question countless times when they were in the desert. Not once had he received an adequate answer. "You would need to ask Troy. I can assure you, though, he means what he says about locating him, no matter what the cost."

"Yeah," the thief uttered darkly. "It's gonna cost us our lives."

"Personally, I have little desire to pay such a high price. There's a lovely woman named Jane waiting for me to return to the beer garden, so I suggest you find the German officer in question. If not, it's going to be a rather long evening and we'll all end up frustrated." Moffitt gave a sideways look. "And in more ways than one."

The thief balled his hands into fists and glared out the window.

If Moffitt had cared, he would have offered a penny for the man's thoughts. Though he doubted if they were worth anything near it. He imagined the man was thinking the lighter had become more trouble than it was worth, particularly since Troy now had possession of it.

The thief suddenly leaned forward and stared off to the right. He reached out and grabbed the steering wheel. "Stop!"

Tully slammed on the brakes, again throwing them against the dash. No apology followed the impact. Moffitt didn't ask for one. Instead, he looked to the thief.

"This is the place! He should be off the road, less than a hundred yards, under a tree, next to another dead Kraut officer."

"For your sake, and all of ours, I do hope you're right this time." Moffitt tightened his grip on a rifle. "We'll fan out to search. Tully, keep him within your sight."

"Will do, Doc," Tully responded, as he gave a reassuring pat to his own rifle while looking at the thief. "Come on, you. Let's get moving."

The Jeep pulled up alongside. Troy looked at Moffitt. Moffitt gave him a short nod of confirmation.

Troy jumped down and took a rifle from the Jeep's scabbard. He was soon joined by Hitch.

The thief wandered off, looking around intently. Tully was close behind, with his rifle ready.

Moffitt surveyed their surroundings. The earth had been shredded by tank treads and it was still littered with the bodies of fallen Allied soldiers. If this was where Dietrich's unit had made a stand, they had made the Allies pay a high price, even if they had forfeited their commanding officer.

Moffitt winced as he passed the bodies and went to Troy.

Troy barely gave him a look. "See any sign of Dietrich?"

"No, I didn't." Moffitt took a deep breath and forced the truth out with it. "And, I'm not sure we're going to."

"We'll just have to keep looking then."

Moffitt was not surprised at the stubbornness of Troy's response. It was exactly as he had told the private, there was nothing to be done about Troy when he got like this. But still, Moffitt felt someone must at least try to be the voice of reason.

He let out a breath that was a half sigh and half an exasperated huff. "Seriously, Troy, how long are you going to pursue this madness? This area hasn't been secured. We're about to lose any semblance of daylight. It will be impossible to search for Dietrich in the dark. For all we know, we might not even be in the correct sector."

"Then we'll keep looing until we find the right one."

Despite the glare Troy was giving him, Moffitt continued. "I agree Dietrich was a decent enough enemy and he saved your life. But, it's time to be realistic.

"Moffitt-"

"At least tell me why you'd return for him, and not for any one of the other scores of Germans we've fought against?"

Troy gave him the piercing look he knew all too well. Moffitt already knew Troy's response even before he delivered it.

"We've staying out until we find him."

Moffitt squinted off into the distance and shook his head. The war was almost over, and Troy had remained unchanged until the end.

Knowing there was nothing to be gained by continuing to try and reason with Troy, Moffitt turned his attention to the thief. The man was wandering around, calling out his thoughts. The whole thing could have been comical, thought Moffitt.

If it had been happening to someone else.

"I think he was over here. No, wait! I think he was here." The man stopped and scratched his head, flummoxed. "I dunno, Sarge. It all looks the same. I can't remember!"

"You better start remembering!" Troy warned.

The thief stopped and squinted. "There he is! It's him! Over there, under the tree! There should be a big wound down his side. And, there's the other guy next to him."

Troy could see two crumpled forms next to a large tree. Even from the distance, he recognized the gray wool of the German field uniforms.

The thief took off running towards the area. Tully and Hitch brought up their rifles on instinct.

"Hold your fire!" Troy ordered.

They raced to the area. Troy pushed himself to catch up with the thief. His chest heaving and his feet screaming in agony the entire time, Troy reached the area and shoved the thief aside. He stared at the two mangled bodies lying on a bloody patch of snow.

"Jesus," was all Troy could mutter.

The nearest body was of a young German lieutenant. He was on his stomach, exposing a major wound to his lower torso. His head was facing away and he had lost his cover, exposing blonde hair streaked with dirt and blood. Near him was a thin wallet which had been tossed aside. No doubt the bastard thief had also robbed this German officer.

Troy shook his head in disgust.

Knowing the guy wasn't Dietrich, Troy turned his attention to the other man.

The man was older and taller and was, indeed, a major as the thief had claimed. The officer was lying on his back, his head to the side with his eyes closed. One hand was clasping a hand of the lieutenant, the other fallen by his side. His coat had been buttoned up as if to keep him warm, with the fabric smoothed of creases.

There was a neat bullet hole on the left shoulder encircled by a small amount of blood. Painful, but not serious enough to kill him. No, what had killed the major was a massive wound down his left side, raw and open, filth embedded in it. Black congealed blood drenched the snow around him. The heavy stench of iron filled the air, and the all too familiar smell of the loss of life made Troy's stomach churn.

It was Hitch who broke the silence. "Sarge, he can't be Dietrich. I know it's been a couple of years, but this scarecrow looks nothing like him."

Troy took a closer look at the gaunt man. He was pale, with the same pasty whiteness Troy had grown to expect of Europeans. Tans, even from years of exposure from the desert sun didn't last long in the continental gloom. The man's dark hair was grimy and matted with sweat, but the filth didn't cover the occasional gray. And, upon closer inspection, there was plenty of white in the straggly hair which lack of a razor had allowed to cover his cheeks and shin. While the rags he wore had obviously been a once sharp uniform, now they were frayed and threadbare, the fabric soaked through by massive blood stains.

What Hitch had said was true. No one who had known Dietrich in Africa would have disagreed with him.

However, Troy didn't need to think twice. "No, it's Dietrich alright."

He knelt beside the body and ripped off one of his gloves with his teeth. He found the skin under his fingers nearly as cold as the air as he checked for a pulse.


	2. Chapter 1

My back arched when the strong fingers touched my neck. I drew in a breath, gasping for air, the cold burning my lungs. My body began convulsing, jerking against my will. I dug my free hand into the dirty snow while gripping Leutnant Hahn's hand with my other, attempting to control the spasms.

Through my seizures, I heard the man kneeling near me yelling in English.

"He's not dead!"

The man rose from my side and a struggle ensued. Others rushed to the conflict.

The man started speaking fast and I struggled to understand his words.

"You fucking bastard! You rifled his pockets, and took his lighter while he was still alive! And then you left him to die?"

"I didn't want to get in trouble for taking his stuff! I had no Kraut souvenirs to take home. Besides, it was an English lighter. He must have stolen it from some Limey, either dead or alive. I don't get the big deal about this guy. He's just some Nazi Kraut officer. I wish all these Nazi Kraut officers were dead. With those wounds, he should be."

"Well, he's not. And Nazi Kraut or not, he's a better man than you could ever hope to be. If I had my way, you'd be lying there instead of him."

The angry man knelt beside me again, frantically unbuttoning my greatcoat to examine the extent of my wounds.

"Captain Dietrich, its Sergeant Sam Troy, from the Rat Patrol in North Africa, remember me? I'm gonna get you home."

I forced my eyes open and scanned the man's face. Troy came into a hazy focus. Stress had etched deep lines around his eyes, but it was Troy's untanned face which surprised me.

But like me, he had not been in the desert for almost two years.

Troy's voice was urgent, but it contained a calming strength. He gave a tight smile when he realized I recognized him. "Yeah, I thought you'd remember me, Captain. Almost impossible not to, huh?"

"Captain! What are you talking about? Sergeant, the Kraut's a major, can't you see?" the other man said with a stupid intone to his voice.

I realized who he was. It was the private who had stolen my lighter and tortured me earlier, leaving me to die.

Troy ignored him.

"Moffitt, get over here!" He called over his shoulder. "Take a look at Dietrich. Tully, grab a couple of medical kits from the ambulance along with a stretcher."

The private who never said much slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran off.

"Hitch, keep an eye on this guy." Troy jerked his chin at the thief who had already begun inching away. "I don't trust him not to run off if he sees the chance. Shoot him if necessary."

The young private brought up his weapon. "With pleasure," he added with a smack of his gum.

Ah, so Troy and his team had survived the war without losing a man. I would have given even odds of them doing so.

Moffitt pulled aside my greatcoat and lifted my tunic. He found the broken chain with my identity disk, glancing at it before placing it in my pocket. "The German disk doesn't provide a name, but then I guess we don't need one, do we? It does have his blood-type, A-Negative. One off from mine."

His eyes and hands took stock of the damage to my body before he shook his head. He sat back on his heels and looked up at Troy. "There's little, if anything, I can do. I'm a decent enough field medic, but I doubt even a skilled surgeon could save him, even if he was right here. Along with the massive side wound, he has a clean shot in the shoulder and a more serious one on his thigh. God knows what else there is I can't see. Not to mention he's burning up with fever and has a massive infection from all the dirt and shrapnel in his wounds. Honestly, how he's survived such blood loss is beyond me."

All of this was delivered clinically, and without emotion. The Englishman had not changed in the least. Still as cold and icy as a winter on the Eastern Front.

Moffitt peered at my face and frowned. "His face is also battered, almost as if he was in a brawl. Troy, look at these odd marks on Dietrich's face. They're not wounds. Looks like they were painted on him." Moffitt turned my face side to side, his fingers grazing my face. "With . . .blood?"

Embarrassed, I attempted to move my head to hide the smears the thief had marked upon me with my own blood.

Troy leaned over to inspect them before looking up at the thief.

"Did you do this to him?" The man stood there, not answering. "I said, did you do this? Answer me!" Troy's voice was low and dark. Although not raised, the force behind it was unmistakable.

The thief shrugged. "So what if I did? I didn't mean no harm by it. Just trying to have a little fun, nothing more. Wanted to show anybody who came by I had been here."

Troy sprang up to attack the man, but he was restrained by Moffitt.

Moffitt struggled to hold Troy. "Forget it, Troy. We'll deal with him later. If Dietrich is going to stand any chance of surviving, we need to get him out of here. Now."

The private returned with a medical kit and a stretcher slung over his shoulder. "There's only one kit. They probably didn't have time to stock up before we snatched the ambulance."

"Moffitt, do what you can," Troy ordered. "He's got to make it."

Moffitt looked up at Troy, but his question was silent.

"Don't ask me why. I just know he's got to survive the war."

"Not applying too much pressure, are you, Troy?" Moffitt gritted his teeth and went to work. "I'll do what I can. Which I dare say, won't be much. I'll pack and dress the wounds and at least make him comfortable." Moffitt unbuckled the kit and rummaged around. He pulled back my tunic collar and soon felt the sharp prick of a needle in my upper shoulder.

Ah! A delicious feeling soon embraced me, the morphine running through my veins. Moffitt's dose was strong and a heavy feeling began to overtake my mind. My eyes grew heavy.

Through my fog, I heard the sound of paper ripping and felt pressure as Moffitt packed my side with batting.

"There's not enough to dress all the wounds," he muttered. "I'll leave the shoulder, but lightly dress the thigh and concentrate on the torso injury. It's the best I can do."

Troy and his team were focused on Moffitt, pulling their attention from the thief. Through my fog, I could see the thief taking small steps backward, distancing himself as if to flee.

There was the sharp crack of a rifle originating from the tree line.

Hitchcock brought up his rifle to fire.

Troy placed his hand on the weapon, pushing it down.

"Don't fire, Hitch."

"There are Krauts still out there, Sarge. You know the area isn't secure."

Troy ignored him and scrutinized the area, his eyes narrowing. His instinct understood something beyond him.

"Yeah, but it's not the case this time. Believe me, there won't be a second shot."

"How can you be sure?" The young private went to raise his rifle again.

A stern look from Troy caused him to lower it. "I just am."

The thief gaped at his chest where a dark, red stain was growing. He ripped his tunic and blouse open to stare at the wound before staggering back to me. He looked across the opening to the tree line, understanding on his face.

Two starlings rose up from the trees, lazily circling in the still air before heading west, rising as their wings caught the air.

The thief's knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground beside me. His eyes looked into mine and they were filled with fear. His mouth moved without emitting any words. He tried crawling away.

Using my remaining strength, I restrained him. I spoke my only words since being found.

They were little more than a whisper, meant only for him.

"You were not worthy of the lighter, and as a result, you have paid the price for stealing it. Its power belongs only with me."

His eyes went wide with understanding and fear even though my words were spoken in German. I released him. He attempted to move away from me, but he died before doing so.

"Moffitt, what did Dietrich say?" Troy asked

Moffitt shook his head. "Unsure, Troy. It was pretty garbled, but he mentioned something about worthiness and a lighter."

Unconsciously, Troy reached up and touched his breast pocket. I understood. Troy had my lighter and it had led him to us.

My convulsions came again, the morphine unable to control them.

Troy leaned over me. "Captain, hang on. There's a field hospital not far from here. Hitch, Tully! Get him on a stretcher."

I gasped when they lifted me between them. They were about to carry me off when I grabbed Troy with a bloodied hand. I had no strength to speak, but shook my head, my eyes traveling to Hahn still lying in the bloodied snow.

Troy's eyes followed mine. "The other German officer? You think he's still alive, too? You don't want to leave without him?"

Closing my eyes, I gave a slight nod.

Troy understood my plea. "Moffitt, check the other guy."

There was a pause. I could imagine Moffitt looking down at the massive wound in Hahn's lower back, silently questioning Troy's order.

"Just do it," Troy snapped.

Though my eyelids were heavy, I forced myself to open them, watching as Moffitt kneeled beside Hahn to check for a pulse. All the while I prayed that the Almighty had chosen to spare the boy, just as he had me.

A look of surprise came to Moffitt's face. "He's still alive, too. I don't know how he could be, nor Dietrich for that matter, but they both are."

"Is there any morphine left? Tully, get another stretcher."

Moffitt peered into the kit. "One left. I could have sworn I used all morphine on Dietrich. Apparently not." He brought forth a syringe and administered the contents to my leutnant. He applied batting to Hahn's wound and secured it with tape. "Nothing else I can do," he said through gritted teeth.

"Sarge, they're both chewed up pretty bad," Hitch said in a low voice. "You think they'll both make it?"

Night had fallen and a cold wind began to rise as the temperature dropped. The wind carried with it the sweet smell of the earth, of spring and of life, and of the end.

Troy looked out into the darkness. The danger had become real. It would be only a matter of time before the rogue and fanatical Germans who were still at large made their appearance.

"None of us will if we don't get the hell outta here. It's going to get pretty ugly out here, and we've run out of time. Let's shake it."

"And him?" asked Moffitt, referring to the dead thief.

"Leave him. He's taken Dietrich's place."

They carried us to an ambulance marked with a large red cross. We were slid onto racks and Moffitt sat on a sturdy stool between us. The ambulance started with a low rumble and lurched forward. I could only assume Troy and his young driver would take up their normal positions in the Jeep and follow us, Troy manning the .50. Nothing had changed from Africa, except now I was his prisoner. I felt no fear, but instead safe and protected. Unlike the usual danger one sensed when in Troy's presence.

I forced myself up unto my elbows and looked out the open back. In my opiate delirium, I expected to see Perkins and Lyon standing by the tree. Instead, there was only the thief's body left in the bloody snow where we had lain. The body soon faded away as the ambulance picked up speed. I collapsed back against the stretcher. My final thoughts before slipping into unconsciousness were regarding the two British soldiers.

I understood why Perkins and Lyon had left us when we were dying.

They had sent Sergeant Sam Troy in their place.


	3. Chapter 2

I remembered little of the trip to the field hospital.

I was comfortably numb and in no pain even as the ambulance jolted over the uneven road. On one occasion, the ambulance lurched into a crater and Moffitt grabbed us before we were thrown from the racks. I cared little and relaxed to enjoy the morphine coursing through my body.

Moffitt occasionally disturbed my serenity by checking our vital signs, first me, than Hahn. Hahn was on my right, peaceful in his oblivion. What a pity he was unconscious, sleeping from Lyon's touch, and not enjoying the morphine!

All too soon, the ambulance jerked to a stop. There was shouting and a rush of voices. The tailgate was thrown down and Troy appeared. "I'll get a few guys to help and then go find a doc," he announced before vanishing. Troy's privates jumped up and slid us out before placing us on the ground. Orderlies soon appeared, pulled from their duties by Troy.

They stared, looking down at our grey uniforms, before one of them spoke. "You made us rush for a couple of . . .Krauts?"

"What of it?" Troy said, reappearing from nowhere. "You have a problem with treating them?" His voice promised retaliation for an incorrect response.

The orderly hesitated before answering. "No, but the way you were going on about two casualties, Sarge, I would've thought it was Truman and Churchill. You didn't mention about them being the enemy."

"Just get them in," Troy ordered. They heaved us up and carried us into the hospital. Troy called out, "Who's your top surgeon here?"

"Doc Keaton, but he's heading off duty. Should've been off duty eight hours ago, but we had some other soldiers, _American_ soldiers, arrive who had been shot up by _German_ soldiers. All the surgeons have been working non-stop to treat them. Just to let you know, not all of the Americans made it."

"Don't talk to me about death, kid. Trust me, after four years, I've witnessed and done more than my fair share of killing. The Germans have been at war for over two years longer. Can you imagine what he's seen?" Troy asked, indicating me. He sounded resigned and unbelievably tired. "A small part of the war can end today, for all of us, with the saving of these two German soldiers. The doc will just need to have his shift extended again."

"I don't recommend it, Sarge. He's not the type to be pushed around."

"And why's that?" Troy countered, the annoyance replacing the tiredness in his voice. "Just show me where he's at and I'll handle the situation. I've handled bigger brass than some field surgeon."

"Okay, Sarge, but I want to warn you: Don't be surprised if he wants you to meet his little girlfriend Sally."

"You've got to be kidding," Troy muttered under his breath.

"Trust me. You'll understand when you meet her."

The hallways had a strong scent of disinfectant mixed with death. The morphine was beginning to wear off and I began to feel every step and stumble the orderlies made. They stopped outside a room with a curtain for a door.

"Doc Keaton should be in there, wrapping up from his earlier surgery." The orderly looked at the curtain and then Troy. "Good luck, Sarge."

"Don't worry, kid. I can be very persuasive," Troy said with a grin.

"So can Sally," he countered, "and, for the record, I'll put my money on _her_."

"You keep mentioning Sally. Who is she, a nurse?"

"You don't want to know. Follow me." The orderly lifted up a curtain and we entered an operating room. "Doctor Keaton, the Sarge here wants to speak with you."

"I'm off duty, Hawkins. I'm late for an extended date with Morpheus, and don't want to be disturbed. Sullivan will arrive soon to assume operating duties."

Troy wasted no time approaching the surgeon. "Doc, I have two officers here who really need your help. They're shot up pretty bad."

Even through my growing pain, I noticed Troy conveniently did not mention our nationality.

"There's other surgeons available to treat them. Go find one who doesn't belong to the walking dead." The surgeon possessed a cultured accent from the American southeast which could not hide his weariness.

"Yeah, I get it, but I was told you were the best and one of the guys here needs your level of skill."

"Flattery will get you nowhere. I already know I'm the best, but I'm dead on my feet. I told you, there are other surgeons available."

Troy cursed under his breath. "We're getting nowhere like this. I don't have time for prima-donna games." He pulled his sidearm and armed it. There were gasps from the orderlies, but Troy's team remained unfazed.

"Are you threatening me, Sergeant?" The surgeon seemed unimpressed by the show of force. Perhaps it was due to his exhaustion, or his self-confidence.

"No, I'm making you a promise."

The situation had become interesting. Troy was tormenting others as he so frequently had me in the desert. Having Troy on your side came with a cost, although he delivered results. Suddenly, I felt an uncharacteristic deep sympathy for every American officer to whom Troy had ever reported.

The situation would have been amusing except for my growing agony. The morphine had almost worn off. I shut my eyes against it, hoping Troy would reach some sort of resolution soon.

"Really? Then, allow me to introduce you to my little girlfriend Sally."

There was the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being armed. I opened my eyes to witness Troy being confronted by a man in stained surgical scrubs. He was aiming a short barreled shotgun at Troy, and at close range.

"Sergeant, just so you understand, Sally doesn't like to be fucked without being kissed first. Now at this distance, Sally would cut you into two without so much as a smear to her lipstick. So I ask you: Do you still want to fuck with her?"

Troy's eyes remained locked with the surgeon's. Keaton was unwavering. Troy glanced down to the shotgun before replacing his sidearm.

"As I thought," responded the surgeon. Now, since we have the unpleasantness finished, allow me to examine your two officers."

He motioned to the orderlies. "Put them up on the tables so I can get a better look at them. Except for the orderlies, the rest of you leave my operating room."

Troy's team filed out, but he remained stubbornly in place.

Keaton ignored Troy. He turned his attention to Hahn. His focus was intense as he examined and probed his wound. "This back wound is bad, but he'll survive if he is worked on soon," he declared. "I don't see any other injuries. Two of you orderlies, take the lieutenant to the other operating room and notify Sullivan," ordered Keaton. "He will operate on him."

As Hahn was taken from the room, I said a prayer on his behalf that Keaton was correct and that he would survive. Hahn would have had a clean escape if he had not returned for me.

"I'm not leaving until I know about the Major," Troy stated emphatically, stubborn as normal.

"All in good time, Sergeant. I haven't forgotten him. Looks like he's a more serious case." Keaton came to my side. "Hawkins, Grant, strip him down so I can examine the extent of his wounds. I suspect he has more damage than just the nasty one on the side and the shoulder wound."

My boots were removed and my body stripped before I was draped with a clean sheet. A light was snapped on over me. I turned away from the brightness and focused on the surgeon. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his eyes remained sharp and clear. His hands were deft and sure. I gasped and gritted my teeth at his touch.

Troy was becoming restless and edgy. "Put up or shut up, Doc, about being the best," he growled.

Keaton continued his examination, unfazed by Troy, his eyes never moving from me.

The tenseness Troy was emulating was tangible. It wasn't long before he had reached his limit. "Look, you're wasting time. The guy can't last much longer with these wounds!"

"If he's lasted this long, he will last a few more minutes."

Keaton recovered me with the sheet and stepped away. My eyes followed him as he went to a sink and washed his hands. He proceeded to strip off his stained scrubs, tossing them into a tub. He washed his hands again and pulled on a fresh set of scrubs. Not once had he mentioned our nationality.

Keaton finally spoke. "Hawkins, bring me Meredith."

"I think she's already sleeping."

Keaton gave an exaggerated sigh and looked at the orderly like he was thick. "Then go _wake_ her. Inform Meredith I need her skill as a surgical nurse for a particular nasty case. It should pique her interest. Get going man!" he ordered. "I want to begin operating immediately."

The orderly left without being told again.

"So you think you can save him?" asked Troy.

Keaton sighed again, this time with impatience. "I'm not calling in my best, not to mention my favorite, surgical nurse to discuss baseball statistics, Sergeant. I _know_ I will save him. There is a good reason why they call me the Postman."

"The 'Postman'?"

Keaton looked at Troy with disdain for doubting his ability. "Because I always deliver."

A large colonel entered the operating room, pushing past the curtains.

"Keaton, what's going on here?" he asked in a booming voice. "The entire hospital is in an uproar over a commando team bringing in a couple of casualties."

His voice was familiar, but I was unable to place it. In the United States before the war? Africa? France? A lifetime ago, or just last week?

"Not much, Thompson," Keaton acknowledged over his shoulder. "Just completed the initial exam of my patient."

The colonel came to my side and lifted up the sheet. He took in my wounds at a glance.

"A nasty case, Keaton." Thompson straightened up to look at the surgeon. "It's your call. You should have been off duty hours ago. I can call in someone else if you believe the man can be saved. If not, we can at least make him comfortable until the end."

"No, I'll accept him. I'm always up for a challenge. I've saved men who were in worse condition."

"I don't remember when." Thompson began scrutinizing my face.

"Sergeant, I wasn't informed the casualties were German."

Troy moved to my side. "Why? Does it make a difference?"

"We don't differentiate who we treat in my hospital. I'm only mentioning it because I recognize the German major here," he responded, indicating me on the table.

"You do? How?"

"It was about a week back. His team was operating far behind Allied lines, acting as commandos. One of his guys got chewed up pretty bad and they didn't have the capability to administer medical care to him. The major approached us under a white flag, and asked us to treat his man. This guy here looks like the major, although he's even thinner, if such a thing is even possible. He can't weigh more than one fifty at the most."

"What happened to the major after he dropped off his man?" Troy asked.

"I gave him a pack of cigarettes before offering him the opportunity to surrender or to at least accept some food. He refused both, as proud and as arrogant as all get-go. Given the circumstances, I gave him an hour to clear the area before I notified our troops.

"At the time, I told him he had a set of steel balls. Looks like he also has a hell of a will to live. With wounds like this, I can't believe he's still alive."

Troy shook his head. "I don't believe it."

Thompson raised his eyebrows. "It's what happened."

"It's not that I doubt you," Troy explained. "My team was pursuing a German commando team for almost a month. They kept slipping out of our grasp, always one step ahead of us. I tried every trick and trap, but we just couldn't catch them. We knew we had clipped a man, but then they just disappeared. No idea it was him. I should have, though. His tactics were too familiar."

So Troy was the one who had nearly captured us. The situation had reversed from what it had been in the desert. Ironic how Troy's skills which had cost the lives of so many of my men in Africa had in turn allowed me how to save the lives of my men in Germany during these final days.

"What happened to the guy he brought in?" Troy asked.

"It was Keaton here who operated on him and saved him." Thompson shook his head. "Made it look easy, too."

"Walk in the park," Keaton called over his shoulder. He soon finished prepping. "Up to assisting me, Thompson? I could use you as my anesthesiologist."

"It's about time . . ." Troy muttered under his breath.

"Sure, be glad to. There's nothing on my schedule. Besides, it's been a while since I was able to witness you in action and to pick up a few pointers. Let me wash up and pull on some scrubs."

"By any chance do you know his blood type, Sergeant?" Keaton asked. "We need to get some flowing into him immediately."

"A Negative," declared Troy. "His identity disk is in his pocket."

"Grant, bring us several units of A Negative. Also, bring what penicillin is available. The major is in desperate need of antibiotics." He turned to Troy, who was still standing by my side. "Sergeant, you've done your job by bringing him in. There's nothing more you can do."

"I want to see him through until the end."

Keaton raised his eyebrows at Troy's insistence. "I'm fine with you remaining as long as you're not one of those who faint at the sight of blood. Our attention will be on saving the major, not administering smelling salts to you."

Troy gave a short laugh. "Trust me, I've seen more blood than you have."

Keaton appeared amused. "I wish I had a nickel for every time a seasoned combat soldier keeled over at the sight of blood in a surgical setting. Just to warn you, his surgery will be a long one."

"I'm not going anywhere." Troy's voice contained the same stubbornness it always had.

The mask was being fitted over my face when Thompson asked, "Must be a good reason for you to go through such an effort to save an enemy officer, Sergeant. Who is he? He didn't tell us his name when he surrendered his man."

"He's Hans Dietrich. He saved my life in Africa. I'm returning the favor."

Troy's words were my last clear memory of the next three weeks.


	4. Chapter 3

My wound at Jufra had been serious. It had been a mere scratch in comparison to my current injuries. I was conscious of little more than constant pain accompanied by a raging fever, neither of which was alleviated by morphine nor the penicillin which were administered non-stop.

I was vaguely aware of the Last Rites being administered to me at some point, an American priest performing the service. The drugs and the delirium prevented me from understanding his English, but I had witnessed the sacredness of the service enough times to recognize the solemn cadence of the ritual.

It was surreal to realize it was being performed for my benefit. Keaton attempted to inform the priest that his attentions weren't necessary, that it was a waste of time for someone who would live. The priest ignored Keaton, continuing to intone, truly believing the sanctity of my soul was at stake.

During my recovery, I developed numerous complications which resulted in me being rushed into surgery more than once. On one occasion, I became aware of the sensation of clammy wetness against my skin. The cause became apparent quickly as blood leaked from the bandages and soaked the sheets. Unable to summon an orderly, I laid there helpless as the life seeped from me as my vision began to blacken. A nurse finally noticed and become alarmed, summoning Keaton to examine me.

"Doctor, he's not just losing blood, he's hemorrhaging. We're running low on A negative. We're not going to be able to keep pumping enough blood in him at this rate to keep him alive."

"Pshaw! Prep him for surgery and let's finish with him once and for all. He will be fine," Keaton reassured her.

"Doctor, should we waste time, blood, and penicillin on a Nazi who's dying anyway?" The woman's tone was shrill and uncertain, contrasting with the confidence in Keaton's deep voice.

"I'll be the judge of whom I perform surgery upon and if my patient will die, Nurse. This is the reason why _I_ am the surgeon and _you_ are the nurse. _I_ have gone to medical school while _you_ have not. His case is demanding, but I can assure you he'll pull through this setback just as he has with all the others. I will not lose him."

Still, she wavered.

Keaton wasted no time in addressing her again, his voice sharp but controlled. "Nurse, I ordered you to prep him for surgery. I won't do so a second time. Afterwards, you will bring Meredith to assist me in the operating room. You are then not to return to my ward again."

After she left, Keaton muttered, "Damn Yankee . . ."

The anesthesia and the morphine caused my thoughts to be chaotic, mixing reality and illusion until I had no grasp of which was which. A distant land reached out to me, demanding my presence, Troy being the focal point. In my delirium, I knew my life was connected to Troy, the past and the future.

There were flashes of Troy and a woman with auburn hair. Irene? Would she return to my life? Or, was the woman the unknown Maureen mentioned by Perkins? Was I betraying Agathe by having thoughts of other women?

From a distance, I became aware of a woman crying, her sobs muffled. The woman was my mother, being comforted by my father. She was crying against his strong, broad chest, his hands stroking her light ash blonde hair. My father was speaking with Keaton, his heavily accented English difficult for me to comprehend.

My father was also crying, which surprised me. The only other time I had seen him cry was when I was ten. My mother had delivered a stillborn boy, Joachim, and had herself almost perished from the difficult delivery. Seeing my father crying, because he believed I was now also dying, was an event I had never expected to witness.

Time passed unknown before lucidity returned to me. Even without opening my eyes, it was obvious I was in a hospital. The smells of disinfectant, stale male bodies and blood mixed with death was consistent to all field hospitals.

My perception was foggy, and it took several minutes for my vision to focus. The lighting was dim, but from the high windows, the sky was beginning to lighten with the dawn. The hospital ward was long, beds lining both sides of a central aisle. Except for an occasional cough, the men were quiet, probably asleep.

A nurse noticed me awake and came to my bed side. She was a tall woman with a strong frame. Her light brown hair was pinned up into a bun, but a few tendrils had escaped to frame her face. Her light grey eyes shone with a deep intelligence, their beauty alone saving her from plainness.

"Major, you've finally returned to us. You've been out of it for quite a while."

"You are Fraulein. . ." my mind continued to clear ". . .Meredith," I rasped. My mouth and throat were dry, my voice hardly above a whisper. "I remember your name being mentioned several times."

"I am. Doctor Keaton assigned you to me shortly after your arrival."

"The doctor spoke highly of your skills. I am honored for your service." She looked downward, her cheeks coloring slightly. "May I have some water?"

Her professional demeanor returned. "A few sips, nothing more." She poured water into a glass and held it to my lips for me to drink. I reached for the glass, but found my arms tied to the bed frame with wide strips of cloth. I began struggling, but soon tired and sank back unto the thin mattress, the pain rising with a sharp ascent. Stubbornly, I again attempted to move my arms.

"Why am I tied? Is it to prevent me from escaping?" My voice indicated my humiliation.

She raised her eyebrows at my accusation. "Hardly. You have less strength than a new born kitten. You would not have made it more than a few feet. The restraints are due to your restlessness and agitation. You tried several times to pull the IVs from your arms. It was necessary on more than one occasion to give you high doses of morphine to calm you."

Again, she brought the glass to my lips. The cool water was refreshing. It reminded me of returning from a long patrol in the desert, and how much we would cherish the smallest amount of water.

"Thank you," I murmured.

She placed the glass aside. "I'll check your vital signs and bandages before summoning Doctor Keaton. You'll find me a tad gentler than he."

She removed the sheet, exposing what remained of my body. My torso was covered with thick bandages. There was a light dressing on my shoulder and a heavier one on my left thigh. None of the dressings could hide my emaciated body, with the bones protruding through the dry, paper thin skin.

She checked my temperature and pulse, making notes on a chart. I tensed when she reached for the bandages, preparing myself for pain. Instead, her touch was skillful, causing me no discomfort. She gave a slight smile of approval.

"You are healing well. Doctor Keaton will be pleased." She glanced at her watch. "He should be making his rounds. I'll bring him to you."

Meredith replaced the sheet, and disappeared through door at the far end. All I could do was stare up at the ceiling. Only a few minutes had passed before she returned with a man I assumed to be my surgeon, Keaton.

He was a slight man, but with an intense personality which overcame his short stature. He radiated the self-confidence of a man who knows he is the best at his profession.

He picked up my chart, taking in the notations at a glance. "Major Dietrich," he said, looking up from the records. "I am Doctor Joseph Keaton. I had the pleasure of operating on you. Several times, in fact."

He turned to me and then I recognized him by his penetrating eyes, those eyes which had remained focused despite the exhaustion consuming him.

"Yes, I remember you examining me when I was brought in, but only fragments afterwards." I had more pressing things on my mind than exchanging pleasantries with the man who had saved my life. "A Leutnant Rainer Hahn was brought in with me from the field. Where is he?"

Keaton raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Asking about your man's health before your own, eh?"

I could not have done anything else. "He was the final man of my command. He saved my life. What is his condition?"

"He's doing well. Recovering better than you, I might add. He had a different surgeon and is in another ward. As for you, I would not have missed the opportunity to operate on such a challenging case as yourself."

"Because I was near death?"

He looked at me incredulously. "Not so much that you were nearly dead, but because I was the only surgeon talented enough to save you."

I closed my eyes. "You don't lack an ego, do you?"

"There is no shame in admitting one is the best."

I was not about to argue it when I seemed to be living proof of his statement. "When may I see Leutnant Hahn?" I persisted

Keaton's face became stern, almost like that of a parent whose child is attempting too much. "In a few days. I will send for him once you have sufficiently recovered. In the meantime, you must rest." He scanned my thin frame, obvious even under the sheet. "And, gain some weight. You've lost more since you've been here, and you didn't have it to lose in the first place. I'll gradually transition you to solid food so your system doesn't become overloaded."

"My parents? Were they here or did I imagine their presence?"

Keaton's open expression darkened. "No, you didn't imagine it. They were here. However, a few of the commanding Allied officers, not Thompson, mind you, were uncomfortable with a German general being present. Your folks were ordered to leave. I have been sending regular updates to keep them aware of your progress."

The absurdity of the situation would have caused me to laugh if I hadn't thought it would have torn apart my stiches.

"They feared my parents?" I snorted. "My father is in his eighties, hardly a threat. He did not serve in the Wehrmacht and loathed the Nationalist Socialists. And what risk could my mother, a woman, possibly be?"

"I don't have an answer for you. The order was not of my doing, Major. I understood General Dietrich was present as a father, and not as a military officer."

"There is no reason to restrain me. Untie my arms. I find it degrading."

He placed aside my chart before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a case. He selected a scalpel and neatly sliced through the cloth, barely missing my skin.

"If you are concerned about further embarrassment, just to warn you, your head has been shaved."

My hands flew up to my scalp. Corse stubble and scabbing was all I could feel. My face flushed at the indignation and the embarrassment.

"Feel no shame, Major. It was necessary to control the lice. You were covered with the pesky buggers. If it's any consolation, I've had my head shaved on more than one occasion. And trust me, a short, bald doctor is not a pretty sight." He unwrapped the cloth from my wrists and tossed them into a basin. "Now that we have the unpleasantries out of the way, I will examine you."

He pulled aside the sheet and motioned to Meredith who brought him a tray lined with instruments. I winced when he began cutting pulling off the dressings.

"Allow me, Doctor," Meredith smoothly interjected, giving me a wink which Keaton was unable to see. He gave her an impatient sigh, but stepped aside. With her soft touch, she removed the remaining dressings, causing me little discomfort.

The gaping side wound had been pieced together with small, neat stitches, but remained large and ugly against my skin. The surrounding skin was mottled with purple and yellow bruising, the results of the thief kicking me several times.

Keaton noticed my focus. "I do apologize for the unsightly stitches," he said frowning, believing I was critiquing his skill. "You were running out of time and I needed to close you up. The inside looks much better, I promise you. It should hold up for about . . .what is your age?"

"Thirty-three."

"Fine age, same as me. I guarantee the insides for another sixty years. Considering what you've survived, you're not going to die anytime soon. Yes, it is always good to pull you tough ones through," he said as he rubbed his hands together with some relish.

I looked again at the scar for another brief sickening moment. It would be repulsive even when fully healed.

Keaton brushed aside my reaction with amusement.

"You shouldn't focus on the scarring. Scars on men drive women crazy. It's the whole maternal routine. Women always want to take care of wounded men. Isn't that right, Meredith?"

Meredith rolled her eyes at his back. "Yes, Doctor Keaton."

He focused on his examination. "The other two wounds were mere scratches compared to your main injury." He examined my thigh and chest. "Healing quite well. Eh, a high school biology student could have handled these two. I would have had the orderly stich you up, but I wanted all the stiches to match. I do take pride in my work. Isn't that right, Meredith?"

Again, Meredith answered, but this time without the eye roll. "Of course, Doctor Keaton."

Keaton began recapping my surgery to Meredith, indicating various techniques he had developed and applied to me, much as if I had been a practice body in a dissecting laboratory. He was oblivious to her controlled bored look. She gave an occasional "Yes, Doctor Keaton, I remember," at the appropriate moments which only encouraged him to provide further details.

"And this one here? The round almost hit the femoral vein. If it had, he would have bled to death almost immediately, I'm afraid," he murmured, with a shake of his head. Completing his surgical lecture, he looked to Meredith for her admiration. His comments reminded me of a young man trying to impress a young lady with his actions. "I would have been unable to save him without you, Meredith."

"You are the gifted surgeon, Doctor. I only assisted as your surgical nurse."

"You are more than just 'a nurse'." He straightened, gazing at her. She was taller than him, and he looked up slightly into her eyes. I began to realize that there was a chemistry between the two, extending beyond the operating room.

I gave a discreet cough to refocus Keaton's attention.

He broke his gaze with her and returned his attention to me.

"Where was I? Ah, yes! Major, do you remember how you arrived here?"

It would be impossible for me to forget until my dying day. "Sergeant Sam Troy and his Rat Patrol team found us in the forest and brought us here. Where is he?"

"Sergeant Troy? He stopped by a few times, but you were always unconscious. He said he would try to make it around again, but it won't be possible for him do to so now."

"Why?" My heart seized with the thought Troy had been killed in the final days of the war.

"He's been shipped out, of course."

Relief slipped from me to be filled with disappointment. "To where? He and his team are no longer operating in the vicinity?"

"Why home, back to the United States. He should have been discharged a few years back given the horrible state of his feet. They caused him constant pain. I examined them, but there was nothing I could do for him."

I had wanted to be rid of the man, the menace, for years, and now he actually was out of my life. An unexpected feeling of loss came over me. I cursed Troy in my mind. Of course, now that I would have welcomed seeing him, he was gone.

"And his team? The other three men?"

Keaton shrugged. "Dispersed, probably. The Englishman likely went back to his own side and perhaps to Syria or Palestine. The English haven't demobilized quite yet. But, with the war over in Europe, there was little reason for any of them to remain here."

It was as if his words had slapped me. The war ending had been a foregone conclusion for years, but for me to have been unconscious through it?

"The war is over? When did it end?"

He placed a hand on my arm. "Major, the European theatre ended with Germany's unconditional surrender. Japan is still fighting, but the Pacific theater should cease by the fall."

"How long have I been here?"

"About a month, a few weeks before Hitler committed suicide."

Again, another unexpected shock. "The Fuhrer is dead? By suicide?"

"Supposedly. The Soviets made the announcement, they were the ones to take Berlin. They haven't produced a body, although if Hitler was alive, I'm positive they would have paraded him around."

Suicide? The coward. I snorted my disdain.

After all his rhetoric of never surrendering, to hold unto every millimeter of territory, and to fight to the death, Hitler took his own life, not following the edicts he had sprayed out in countless speeches. I had sworn an oath to this man, ordered men to their deaths, taken scores of lives, and had almost given my own life. Yet he had not possessed the courage to face the consequences of his own leadership.

Prior to the war, I had believed at least part of Hitler's rhetoric, about Germany's superiority and how we been unfairly penalized by the Allies after the last war. My naïve beliefs had caused more than one heated argument with my father, although neither one of us had belonged to the Nationalist Socialist Party. One time he had called me an ignorant young fool for believing any part of the idiocy Hitler had spewed, causing a silence between us for several weeks. As the war neared and it became obvious Hitler had no desire for peace nor for a German future that was not of his own making, I realized my father had been correct.

I closed my eyes and turned away, not wanting Keaton nor Meredith to see my emotion. Six long years and so much blood shed later, this war had ended like the previous world war: Germany had lost. Germany would fare much worse after this war. The Allies would not chance Germany rising and seeking revenge for a third time.

I reopened my eyes to notice my lighter off to the side on a small bed stand. It stood upright, its burnished metal dully reflecting the dim light. A part of me lifted at its sight.

"My lighter," I said, indicating it with my chin, "would you hand it to me?" I was unable to reach it and needed to feel its strength.

"There is no smoking in here, with all the oxygen," Keaton warned. "It will blow the place to kingdom come."

I laughed at the absurdity of smoking. "My last cigarettes were given to me by Colonel Thompson. My men smoked through them within thirty minutes," I explained. "The lighter is my only personal item remaining. It had been stolen and I feared it lost forever."

"Sergeant Troy mentioned he had retrieved it from a private who had stolen it from you. Apparently, the private was killed when you and Hahn were rescued." Keaton gave a small laugh. "The sergeant warned us to ensure the lighter remained safe with you."

My thoughts went to Guest and Cheri. "The private was not the first to meet such a fate when possessing it," I said giving no further detail.

Keaton raised his eyebrows. "Strong words. Your sergeant must have been exempt. I can assure you he left here very much alive."

"It is because Sergeant Troy was worthy of possessing it."

Keaton picked up the lighter, examining it. "Beautiful. I can see why you're pleased to have recovered it. I haven't seen something quite like it before. And I'm from an area where tobacco is king."

He placed it in my hand, the cool metal comforting against my warm skin.

"When will I be discharged?"

"Not for some time. I will continue giving you morphine for the pain, but will begin tapering it off slowly. I'm concerned for your need of such high doses."

My eyes went to his face. He read me easily. He pulled a chair over to sit beside me and waved Meredith away. She left without comment.

"You've had a drug dependency issue before, haven't you?" Keaton asked.

"Heroin, two years ago, in Africa." My answer was frank and open. Strangely, I felt no shame.

He gave no reaction. "When was the last time you used?" His voice was clinical, without emotion.

"Heroin? Not since Africa." I gave a bitter laugh. "The Wehrmacht had few medications at the end. I ensured the little available was given to my men. I've accepted a few minor doses of morphine when wounded, but nothing substantial until I received it here."

"That's been quite some time. Did you still desire it?"

I gave a bitter laugh. "When I'm stressed, the cravings consume me."

"They will lessen over time and will become easier to control. Be aware, they will always be underneath the surface."

He stood. "You're not the first soldier to fall into this trap, and I doubt you will be the last. In the meantime, we both have work to do. As I said, I'll begin tapering off the morphine dosages. When you're discharged, at least you won't need it physically. And, I'll do my best to assist you with the mental aspect, but I'm not a psychiatrist. Are you in pain now?"

"Yes," I answered honestly.

Keaton motioned to Meredith, who had been standing a discreet distance away. He requested her to prepare a dose of morphine. There was a small prick which proceeded the smooth entrance of the drug. There was not the usual rush, but enough to subdue the pain so I could rest.

"Rest now, Major. I'll check on you in a few hours. Meredith will be here if you should need anything."

Keaton turned to leave, but stopped. "I almost forgot to tell you, Major. Sergeant Troy asked me to give you a message."

"He did?" I pulled myself from the morphine. I was eager to hear what Troy had had to say. "What were his words?"

"He said to tell you he taught you too well."

I gave a small smile. Yes, he had. Having his own tactics turned on him must have been as unnerving. Good. Now Troy knew how I had felt when he had used them upon me in the desert.

I began to drift off, but my mind settled on Troy.

I did not expect to see him again, but would be proven wrong.

I would meet Sergeant Sam Troy again, eighteen months in the future.


	5. Chapter 4

My recovery was lengthy.

Unpleasant.

Painful.

I had little strength despite beginning to eat solid food. Days passed before I was able to walk a few steps from my bed, and it was almost a week before I could reach the door. That accomplishment was only due to leaning on an orderly's arm the majority of the way. I returned to my bed, drenched in perspiration as if I had just run a marathon.

However, no matter how slow, any progress was savored. The luxury of showering was experienced after a fortnight. It was the first time I had felt clean in months. The nurses had done their best, but a sponge bath was never adequate. There was an endless supply of hot water, a simple experience to be enjoyed. I lathered my body twice using the harsh, disinfectant soap before shaving, my hand steady and no longer shaking.

Keaton closely monitored me throughout my recuperation. He checked on me several times a day, ensuring my recovery and no further complications. He began tapering off the morphine as he had said he would. There was little physical pain, but withdrawal left me edgy and irritable, unable to sleep at times.

I cursed my lack of strength to overcome my addiction. Why was I so weak?

On one particular frustrating day, I questioned Keaton as to why he had continued my care instead of delegating me to a subordinate staff doctor.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked, in mock seriousness.

"Hardly."

"When you were brought in, I made the commitment to save you, Major," he responded. "I've invested too much effort to lose you to pneumonia, a simple infection, or something worse." The actual "worse" was left unsaid. "You're progressing rather nicely; better than I expected. You'll be finished soon with the morphine. The amounts we're giving you now are almost miniscule."

Hahn visited me within the first week. His gait was stiff and slow, as he made his way to my bed assisted by an orderly. He wore the same shapeless white hospital gown I did along with oversize slippers.

"Herr Major," he said with a crisp nod. "We survived against the odds."

"Yes, Leutnant, we did." The orderly provided Hahn with a chair before disappearing.

"Your survival is a miracle, Herr Major. It is a topic among the other German soldiers."

"My survival is only due to your loyalty, Leutnant. I would have died on the battlefield if you had not returned for me."

"I was only following your orders of being willing to die for something worth saving."

Uncomfortable with the focus on myself, I turned the conversation towards him. "You are progressing well, Hahn. What do you remember of the final hours, after we were wounded?"

He drifted away to a different place, shifting to the past, his eyes staring into the unknown. "Only fragments and disjointed memories. Voices speaking in English; one cruel, the others compassionate. I could not understand what they were saying, but they seemed to be speaking with you.

"I was in tremendous pain, but thought someone had touched me. I fell into a deep sleep, with no pain whatsoever. Dying was actually rather beautiful and peaceful. It must have been a dream, but it was so very realistic." He emerged from his trance. "The next thing I remember was waking from surgery. There's been little pain throughout my recovery; not much need for morphine. Stiff and uncomfortable, yes, but I suffer from boredom more than anything else."

"It was not a dream," I told him. "One voice belonged to an American soldier who is now dead. The other voices were from Sergeant Sam Troy and his team, the Rat Patrol. They were the ones who found and brought us here." I avoided giving particulars of the thief, and made no mention of Perkins and Lyon. Sharing those details with Hahn would only serve to confuse or upset him, perhaps both. There was nothing to be gained by it.

Hahn's eyes widened. "Sergeant Troy? You mean the Ami who you fought against in Afrika and the one who rescued the boy from Rhodes? I want to thank him for saving us." There was respect in his voice.

Troy commanded respect by all, including the enemy and those who had not met him. "Yes, it was he. Unfortunately, he had already returned to the United States before I was able to express our gratitude."

Disappointment showed on his face. "A fascinating warrior. I would have liked to have met him. But how did he find us, know where we were? We were far off the road, almost to the forest."

I squeezed the lighter hidden in my hand. "Fate," I said telling the complete truth. "Do you have news of our men?"

With the change of topic, Hahn brightened. "I received word they are all safe with none wounded. They were taken prisoner by the Americans the afternoon we fell." He leaned closer. "Herr Major, all of the men from your final unit survived the war against tremendous odds."

I closed my eyes and offered a prayer of thanksgiving for their deliverance. A sound interrupted my prayer. Hahn's orderly was approaching.

"Lieutenant, you should return to your ward," he suggested. "It's best for neither of you to over exert yourselves."

Hahn stood and again gave me a nod of respect. "Herr Major. I'll return again soon."

I grew to know the other German soldiers over the next few weeks. I was the senior German officer, with Hahn being the only other officer remaining. While there were a few seasoned febels and gefreiters, the vast majority of the soldiers were young boys. A few declared they had been wounded and captured the first time they experienced combat in the closing days of the war.

I had little surprise at their declaration. These children had been the only "troops" available for any branch of the Wehrmacht. They had received little training and possessed fewer weapons. Some had been given a rifle and sent directly to the front line. They had stood no chance against the overwhelming strength off the seasoned American forces.

These boys possessed different attitudes than the older men. While the experienced soldiers were relieved to have survived, many of the boys could not accept the reality of Germany losing the war. They blamed the Jews, Bolsheviks, the traditional German officers, and so on. Anyone except Hitler, despite the fact he had been the one ultimately responsible for everything. They had lived their entire lives under the National Socialists and knew of nothing else.

They wanted to continue fighting, to reverse the outcome of the war, to restore the glory of the Reich. A few spoke of escaping, acquiring weapons and becoming partisans. They looked to me for reassurance, for me to lead them into combat, and ultimately to victory and glory for the Furher.

Their fantasy was preposterous, bordering on insanity.

I declined, reiterating that Germany had surrendered. As much as we disliked the reality, we needed to accept it. We were honor bound to accept the unconditional surrender of its acting leaders. One boy, scarcely fourteen, accused me of being a coward, a poor officer who had betrayed the memory of the Furher and the Fatherland. It was due to me and the other Wehrmacht officers like me as to why Germany had lost the war, he shouted.

One of the febels exploded. "Shut your mouth, you little prick! Have respect for the major, who is an Oak Leaves recipient. What honors have you been awarded on the battlefield? None! You don't even have your black curlies, let alone such a prestigious honor. It's time for you to begin thinking on your own instead of believing what that little shit Goebbels fed you since the cradle."

The boy began sobbing, wanting nothing more than the return of the ordered life he had known.

It was impossible to ignore what a ragtag group we German soldiers had become with our shaved heads and threadbare uniforms. By looking at us now, it was hard to believe we were once the most feared army on Earth. We wore a mixture of German and American uniforms after transitioning from the hospital gowns.

There was little choice but for me to wear American issue, down to undergarments and socks, since my Wehrmacht uniform and boots had disappeared. When I questioned the orderly about my uniform, he shrugged. After a moment's consideration, he told me it probably had been discarded due to the lice and its poor condition.

Whatever the reason for its disappearance, it felt as if the conquerors were branding me as one of their own. I felt emasculated and hated wearing American issue in front of the other German soldiers. While I had worn it when impersonating their officers on missions, it had been a means to an end and nothing more. My only concern at the time was believing I could be executed as a spy if captured.

The question on everyone's mind was what awaited us on the outside. While some men looked forward to being discharged from the hospital, others were perfectly content to remain here as long as possible. At least in captivity they were guaranteed to receive three meals a day and shelter.

What awaited us all beyond the hospital was more uncertain.

It was common knowledge how dire conditions were in Germany. Things had been bad before the war ended. Now, they were disastrous. The Allies were unprepared to manage the aftermath of the war, not just in Germany but also in the formerly occupied territories.

Food was scarce and there was little shelter. Many of the men knew nothing of their families' fate and did not know of their current location due to displacement. The Soviets controlled and occupied the east, turning it effectively into a black territory where no one wanted to venture. It was never far from my mind how close they were to Coburg and my family. If the Soviets should push and the Americans relent, my family would join all the other displaced persons fleeing west.

Over the following weeks, the number of Germans dwindled. Sufficiently recovered from their injuries, the majority were processed from the hospital and became POWs or were released from custody. It was bittersweet for me when Hahn left. He was returning to Stuttgart to see if there was anything remaining of his previous life. He was my final soldier, the last of my final command. My military career had now ended.

My turn came the next day.

Keaton appeared earlier than normal.

"Care for a walk, Major? You'll enjoy the grounds. They're beautiful." The request was innocent, but there was an unmistakable underlying meaning.

I gave a forced smile. "Of course, Doctor. You have recommended several times for me to regain my strength by walking."

An orderly approached us as we neared the ward's exit. "Do you need any 'assistance', Doctor Keaton?"

Keaton gave him a look and a wave. "I can assure you Major Dietrich and I will be fine."

The orderly eyed me. "Yeah, but . . ."

"Thank you, but your assistance is not needed." Keaton's drawl was soft, but beneath it there was a distinct edge which caused the orderly to take a step back.

Surrounded by old growth trees, the hospital was on the grounds of a former school. The gardens were neglected and the playing fields torn up by heavy vehicles, but to me, it was beautiful. There were no fences and in the distance there was the tree-line where I had once hidden with my men before approaching Thompson.

We walked at a slow pace in no particular direction, saying nothing. It was Keaton who broke the silence.

"Tomorrow you will be transferred from the hospital and my care. I delayed it as long as possible, but was unable to do so further."

"There is no doubt? It has been confirmed?"

He didn't look at me and said nothing. Overhead a B-29 crossed low in the sky, her engines loud. We both looked up at her, her fuselage catching the sun. Keaton waited for the plane to pass before responding.

"The nurses know everything happening, or about to happen, in the hospital. Let's just say I received the information from a reliable source."

There was little doubt in my mind as to which nurse had informed Keaton.

I continued to walk, accepting my fate. "Your efforts are appreciated, Doctor, for saving my life and now for the warning. Will you face consequences for breaking confidence?"

"Thompson is aware of our conversation. Besides, what can be done to me? Ship me home?" He stopped to study my face. "You probably know what is coming."

"I do: Interrogation, probably over a lengthy period." I accepted the reality of my freedom being delayed, possibly for months, or even years.

"I tried to prevent the interrogation, you know. They were insistent you could provide useful information given your service record. Their thoughts are beyond me. How useful could this information be with the war over for almost two months? In my opinion, little, if anything could be gained from questioning you. But then, they weren't interested in my opinion." Keaton stooped to pick up a stone. "Rather pretty," he said before slipping it into his pocket. "A Major Jeffrey Braddock will be the one conducting your interrogation."

"What is his background?"

"Braddock is a psychiatrist who had a successful practice before the war in upstate New York." He shook his head. "I don't know how working with rich patients will translate over to questioning German officers. A decent guy, but he's typical of his field."

"In what way?"

"Psychiatrists normally believe they are smarter than everyone else. They're always scrutinizing, trying to determine the cause of a person's actions. Braddock would be a good bridge player if he wasn't so analytical. He's always trying to analyze what the other players are thinking instead of focusing on playing his own hand."

Interesting. I had interrogated countless Allied soldiers and civilians during the war, but had myself been questioned only once, by the Gestapo, after I had escaped Africa. They had accused me of colluding with the Rat Patrol, an accusation murmured against me on more than one occasion.

Keaton continued. "I'm unaware of the details, but I would assume he will question you regarding any classified information you knew or possessed. Braddock will want answers so he will push you hard. I've been assured, though, you won't be tortured."

I had witnessed torture too many times. Each experience had impacted me, the ruthlessness and the relentlessness of the deliverers horrifying and disgusting me. Perkins' beatings at the hands of the Gestapo had been so brutal, I had been compelled to physically intervene before he was killed.

And then, there had been my own torture at the hands of Guest. My body had become hideous as a result of his physical abuse, distasteful for even me to behold. But, even deeper were the scars I carried as a result of his psychological abuse, from the sex and the heroin. Those would mar me for life.

"How long will I be detained?"

Keaton shrugged. "However long it takes until Braddock is satisfied with your answers. Afterwards, you'll be released and you can finally go home."

I gave a bitter laugh. "Do you know, Doctor, I have not been home for over two and a half years?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What? The German army did not see fit to give you all leave?"

I shook my head. "For personal reasons, I have chosen not to visit since 1943."

"That's a long time, Major."

"Yes," I admitted. "However, my sentiments changed in the final weeks when my unit was pushed back farther and farther towards Coburg."

"What changed your mind?"

"I realized suddenly I was not just fighting for the Fatherland, but also for Coburg and my family." I looked east, the direction in which my home lay. "After six years of fighting, I desperately just wanted it all to end so I could go home. Ironic how my homecoming will still be denied, even with the fighting over."

Keaton met my bitter smile with a sympathetic one. We kept walking.

We reached the perimeter of the grounds, where the war torn grass of the open fields edged the trees. I turned to face Keaton. "We are near the forest. Coburg is not far away, and I am familiar with the area. The temptation to escape is very strong."

"I wouldn't try to stop you. But," he paused, "I don't believe you will do so."

I began walking again, my hands still behind my back.

"You are correct. I despised the Nazis, but I took an oath as an officer to serve them. The majority of their orders I fully executed, others I ignored with a clear conscious. As unpleasant and difficult as it is to surrender and admit defeat, I have accepted it as my final order and the terms which accompany it. Escaping would only delay the inevitable. Besides, I do not want to jeopardize my family, or your professional standing." Several minutes passed before I spoke again.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" I asked, indicating the landscape. "Germany is beautiful in the late spring."

"It is," he agreed. "If only I had arrived in your country under different circumstances."

"You must visit my family, outside of Coburg. They will welcome you."

Keaton looked surprisingly pleased at the invitation. "I will take you up on your kind offer before I myself return home. You, in turn, must visit my family in Virginia. The agrarian lifestyle there is good for a man to find himself again."

"I will do so when I return to the United States." I gave him a wry smile. "However, I don't believe I will be given the opportunity for quite some time."

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all that you need?"

I answered without hesitation. "A new toothbrush and a barber." My hair had grown in uneven and unkempt since it had been shaved.

He raised his eyebrows. "You are a man with simple tastes. I believe I can arrange for both."

"Thank you." I turned back to face the way we had come. The hospital, and my future, lay ahead of us. "We should return. It is best for the next act to begin so it will end sooner."

"I suppose you're right. Might as well get on with it, so you can begin living your life."

His words triggered a spark of gratitude within me. "I have never thanked you for saving my life."

Keaton gave me a slight bow. "Sir, it was my pleasure to do so."

The view embraced me, the trees, the brilliant sky and the raw scent of the earth. It would be my last venture outside for the foreseeable future.


	6. Chapter 5

I was moved to a nearby annex the next day, progressing from patient to an official prisoner of war. My quarters were a small room, scarcely larger than a closet, containing a toilet and a sink. The room had two small windows, one towards the ceiling covered with bars and a second one in the door. At any given moment, a guard could monitor me at a glance.

I was allowed to leave my room only to shower. A guard accompanied me who remained while I bathed. He would hand me a razor before entering the shower area and would dutifully collect it afterwards. My meals were brought to me and my only distraction was a few tattered American novels.

The majority of the time I was left alone to speculate upon what awaited me. I knew enough about interrogation to understand the time before the questioning began was often the most stressful for the prisoner. One's mind filled with speculation, and fear, of the severity of the impending interrogation. Yes, Braddock would use the delay to his advantage.

My primary guard was a surly American corporal named Briscoe. When he escorted me to the showers, he would take fiendish delight in taunting me about Germany losing the war and the ugliness of my scarred body.

"Whoa, doggy!" he would say, slapping his knee. "Major, your body looks like a roadmap. A roadmap to defeat!" I was already embarrassed enough for anyone to view my scars, especially those on my back. The incessant jibes only increased my self-consciousness.

"I suppose privacy while I showered would be too much for which to ask?" I inquired sarcastically while he stood outside the stall, leaning against the wall.

"Major, I'm under orders from Braddock himself not to let you out of my sight. Trust me, I don't care to see your naked ugly body any more than you want me to. And by the way, what the hell happened to your back? In four years of war, I've never seen no combat wounds like those."

I gave him a rude gesture and proceeded to ignore him, at least the best I could. Over time, I became accustomed to his taunts, not even looking at him when the idiocy fell from his lips. However, Briscoe's constant gum chewing annoyed me to no end. The corporal was never without it, smacking and popping it while blowing the occasional bubble. I had to restrain myself from slapping the gum from his mouth.

Gum chewing was a crass habit. I had never understood the American obsession with it. Briscoe would even blow bubbles when speaking with officers. The officers cared little about the disrespect, since half of them were also chewing gum and blowing bubbles as well. Witnessing them all working away like cows at their cud never failed to trigger my disapproval.

While it had felt like months, it was actually less than a week before I was summoned for my initial questioning. Briscoe led me to a room and instructed me to wait. He then left, leaving me alone.

I took in the small room at a glance. There was not much to see. It had no windows and contained only a table and two chairs, one on either side of the table. It was exactly as one would expect.

There was nothing else to do except to wait. I knew that waiting was part of Braddock's plan to unsettle me. But instead, the delay allowed me time to gather myself and to calm my racing thoughts.

I had made the decision days ago, to the best of my ability, to divulge only military information which was already common knowledge or readily available from other sources. My loyalty prevented me from doing otherwise. Realistically, I knew I probably possessed little confidential information not already known by the Allies.

Time crawled by silently until I heard footsteps approaching. The door opened.

A tall, slender American major, approximately my age, entered followed by a young lieutenant. Accompanying them was an armed guard. The last to enter, he closed the door before taking up a position behind me.

The major sat across from me. He opened up his briefcase and placed several papers in a pile, neatly squaring them. A legal pad followed, along with a few sharp pencils.

He gave me a thin smile. "Shall we begin?"

I met his eyes, saying nothing.

His manner became brisk and formal.

"Major Hans Dietrich, I am Major Jeffrey Braddock. Your case has been assigned to me."

Braddock spoke in English and possessed a refined north eastern American accent, likely sharpened by an elite university. With his intonation and movie star good looks, it wasn't difficult to imagine rich, older women wanting a lifetime of therapy just to be in his presence, with no qualms of having to pay for his company.

Idly, I wondered what else they might have been receiving from Braddock aside from his counsel.

Braddock continued. "Our conversation is just a formality. Really nothing more than a friendly chat between fellow soldiers. We already know quite a bit about you, so this shouldn't take long."

Groaning internally, my face remained impassive. Whenever interrogators said it "shouldn't take long", they meant the exact opposite. I braced myself to be questioned indefinitely.

"I only ask for you to answer my questions fully and completely. Once I have your answers, you will be released from American custody."

_American_ custody.

Nothing was precluded from the other Allies having their turn with me. British questioning could be interesting given I had fought against them extensively throughout the war. The French? They would probably interrogate as poorly as they fought. The only ones I feared were the Soviets due to their ruthlessness.

"Do you prefer my answers in German or English?" I asked in German, testing him if he knew the language. Braddock glanced over to the lieutenant, confirming my suspicion he was not fluent in German.

The lieutenant translated for him.

Braddock appeared amused. "You understood my question well enough to respond in German. Your dossier states you are fluent in English so please answer in that language. Lieutenant Heyes, will translate if, by some chance, you should not understand."

The language difference could be used to my advantage. If necessary, I could gain a few seconds to formulate an answer by requesting an English word or phrase be translated.

I gave a slight nod of understanding. "You've thought of everything," I said in a droll voice. "How kind and considerate of you."

He ignored my sarcasm. "And Dietrich?"

"Yes, Braddock?"

"Until I am satisfied with your responses, you will remain in my custody. Keep in mind I possess the authority to have you held by American authorities indefinitely. Your release has already been denied twice by others."

I gave him a false grin. "I would expect nothing less from you. But don't expect much, Braddock. There is probably little you haven't already heard from dozens of other Wehrmacht officers, especially those of higher ranks."

"You are the only once captured in this theatre who was on General Rommel's personal staff. This alone makes you a rare catch."

I remained silent.

"Good. I'm glad we have an understanding."

Braddock sounded just like other interrogators. All intelligence organizations, no matter from which country, must have read the same manual on how to flaunt power. They acted like arrogant asses while offering release if only you would answer a few questions. Needless to say, they were all the exact opposite of what they pretending to be.

"For the official record, what is your full name?"

"Hans Erich Dietrich."

"What was your rank and branch of service?"

"I am a major in the Wehrmacht with my service branch being the Heer."

"Again, Dietrich, please use English for all words unless an English equivalent does not exist."

"I provided the correct terms. I would expect you would be familiar with such basics of the Wehrmacht."

Heyes stifled a laugh.

Braddock proceeded without comment.

"Now that we have the formalities out of the way, shall we start at the beginning of your military career?"

Braddock was serious about starting at the beginning. He began asking me questions about attending the military academy. He left no minutia unturned, from gaining admission, to the classes I attended, the academics, the lectures on strategy, etc. Nothing was left unexplored.

Braddock possessed an uncanny memory. He took few notes, yet could instantly recall answers and use the information to frame additional questions. On a few occasions he would re-ask a question from a different perspective, but it was more to catch an inconsistency than to refresh his memory. The first session ended at the timeline of my graduation.

At this rate he would conclude in, perhaps, twenty years.

I was released and returned to my room, mentally exhausted. I was brought supper, but only picked at the food. I sent it away, mostly uneaten. My sleep was fitful, my find focused on what lines of question Braddock would pursue the next day.

I expected Braddock to call for me early in the morning, but he did not summon me again for two days. My hopes rose. Perhaps Braddock had resigned himself to the fact I possessed no extraordinary information and would authorize my release.

Disappointment rose within me when he again sent for me.

Braddock began where he had left off from the previous session. It was as if only a few minutes had elapsed instead of two days. He reiterated his questions about the academy, pressing me about working directly for Kommandant Schnass.

"The prank was idiotic, Dietrich," Braddock said, "marring an otherwise pristine record. What exactly were you thinking?"

"It was not of my doing," I snapped, annoyed he was prying into, and judging, my personal life from more than a decade before. "I took responsibility to protect the others involved, including a young woman."

"So, it is true about there being honor among thieves?"

I said nothing, not bothering to provide details on how it was actually Wilhelm Meyer who had caused the explosion. I had learned enough of Braddock to know that it would only inspire additional questions which I would not care to answer.

"A substantial donation was made to the academy by your father immediately following the event. Afterwards, a hall was named after him. It is not hard to connect the events. You requested your father to intercede on your behalf?"

I glared at him. What other personal information of mine did he possess? "I made no request of my father. I was not the one to notify him of the incident."

"No?"

My silence provided confirmation.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but did not pursue the line of questioning. "Becoming Kommandant Schnass' adjutant would have been worth the price of the prank. A once in a life time opportunity to work directly with someone of Schnass' reputation. He is known within military circles as having built the strong foundation of the German officer ranks through his tenure at the academy."

I had learned more from Schnass in those seven months than I had from all of my professors combined in four years. He had become my mentor and had unceasingly taught me what could not be learned in a lecture. More so, Schnass had become a father figure to me, one whom I had grown to love over the years.

Braddock interrupted my memories by changing direction. "The National Socialists had already gained control when you graduated."

"Yes. Hitler was in attendance and we gave our oaths to him directly at the ceremony."

"Are you or were you ever a member of the National Socialist Party?" he asked.

"No."

"Why not?" he pressed

"I am a soldier with no interest in politics."

"And the other soldiers you served with and served under you? Were they Nazis?"

"Some were, the majority were not. Each had their own personal political beliefs. I became aware of their membership only by chance or by observation. There were some who were enthusiastic in their party loyalty."

Braddock remained silent for a moment before changing his questioning.

"Your father was Major General Erich Georg Dietrich?"

His use of the past tense shook me. I had not seen my father since the brief moment during my recovery from the surgeries. He was not a young man and his health could have deteriorated during the last two years of the war.

My eyes went to Braddock, searching his face for more information. He picked up my dread and concern.

"Did I say _'was'_? My apologies. I meant _'is'_." He had deliberately used the past tense to unsettle me and he had succeeded. "Answer, please."

"Yes, Generalleutnant Dietrich is my father." Braddock frowned at my use of the German rank, but let it pass.

"Your father is highly respected in military circles. Why did he not return to active service?"

Were the Americans to be as much obsessed by my father serving or not serving as the Nazis? I sighed. I was in captivity and still could not escape my father's shadow and reputation.

"It was his decision. He did not confide his reasons to me."

"Surely, the Nazis must have courted him to do so."

"My father did not support the Nazis. He was not a member of the party, either." The information had slipped from me. I had shared my first piece of information which had not already been documented in my service file. I was disappointed in how easily I had broken my earlier commitment to myself.

"Did you discuss the war with him?"

"Only in general terms, not specifics nor strategy. I did not consult with him regarding my orders and he did not inquire."

"A fellow military man and his only son? You discussed little about the war?"

"Correct."

He sat back in his chair. "Hard to believe. Anyone would think it to be the opposite."

"I am not close to my father." Again, another undocumented piece of information had slipped from me. I cursed myself. With every unnecessary admission, it would be harder to prevent it from happening again.

Braddock picked up on the slip, his brows creasing slightly. "I see. And Kommandant Schnass? Did you discuss strategy with him?"

"On occasion, when home on leave. He was interested in how I was applying and expanding the concepts he had taught me."

"But you did not discuss strategy with you father." He delivered the question as a statement. His eyes bored into me.

"As I have already stated, no."

"Were you disappointed not to make your father's rank?"

A flash of anger flared within me. "I unofficially attained the rank of Obersleutnant in eleven years. My father's career spanned decades. There is no reason for me to feel ashamed."

Braddock shuffled through the papers in front of him before choosing one. "Yes, the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. The papers were submitted by your final commanding officer, Oberst Roland von Kleist in early April, but the war ended before the rank became official." He contemplated this for a moment. "When did he inform you of the promotion?"

"When he issued me my final orders, which were understood to be a suicide mission. We both knew I would not be returning and he wanted to present me something for my dedicated service."

Braddock's impassive façade slipped momentarily as I shared this hard cold truth from my last days of the war. While he quickly regained his composure, he stopped the questioning for a moment and brought out a pack of cigarettes. He tossed them onto the table.

"Cigarette?" he offered, casually.

There was an involuntary twitch in the back of my throat at the thought of having one. "No, thank you," I responded, forcing myself not to fixate on the pack.

That they were Lucky Strikes, my favorite brand of American cigarettes, was not helping.

Braddock noticed my obvious "lack" of fixation. He shook one from the pack and brought it to his lips, drawing out the action. The guard leaned forward to light the cigarette for him.

He blew a stream of smoke towards me. "I was informed you smoke. There's no obligation if you accept one."

"I quit." The statement lacked resolution.

He gave a short laugh and waved the hand holding the cigarette towards me. "As you wish."

We sat in silence while he smoked. His eyes never left me, studying my face, while his mind worked to understand mine. In turn, I studied him. My initial estimation of Braddock had changed quickly. Since he did not have a military background and had not experienced active combat, I had believed he would be unable to grasp the complex tactics and strategies of a constantly changing battlefield.

I found exactly the opposite to be true.

Braddock possessed a keen mind. He had no difficulty comprehending the complexities of warfare. It could have been that his non-military background allowed him to be open minded while analyzing combat situations and determining what drove them. Perhaps it was his medical background which led him to instinctively probe for key points, and ignoring the non-important details I initially offered.

Braddock took a final deep drag and stubbed out his cigarette.

His break concluded, he began questioning me again.

We settled into a routine over the following weeks as Braddock interrogated me on every aspect of my entire career. We met every day for several hours, starting early in morning and halting only for lunch. The guard would be changed at this time. In the afternoon, there was a five minute break for Braddock when he would smoke a single cigarette. Each time he offered me one, which I always declined. We would sit in silence, as he analyzed me like an entomologist studying an insect.

Like many other Allied soldiers, Braddock was fascinated with Rommel. He spent days questioning me about him, seeking to draw every scrap of information I knew about him.

"When was the last time you saw Rommel?"

"The 25th of September, 1944."

"You remember the exact date?"

"Yes. It would be impossible for me to forget."

"Why?"

"It was shortly before his death."

"Why and where did you see him?"

"I briefed him on the combat situation in France. It was at his villa in the village of Herrllingen."

Braddock raised his eyebrows. "A major? Briefing someone of Rommel's rank?"

"It was not the first time I had briefed the Generalfeldmarschall alone. I had done so in Africa and France. On this particular occasion, my superior officer was ill and I was ordered to substitute for him. I knew the material and would have accompanied my commander, anyway."

"And? Then what?"

"I left at dawn the next day to return to the front."

"Nothing else?"

I held up my hands in exasperation. "I was there for less than eighteen hours."

Braddock remained silent, looking at me, not accepting my answer.

I began filling in the missing hours, sharing the moments. "I dined with the Generalfeldmarschall and his wife. Afterwards, I drew his portrait while we were enjoying coffee."

"You're an artist?" His surprise was genuine.

I shrugged. "It is just a hobby in which I occasionally indulge. The Generalfeldmarschall was pleased with my work, and he requested to sign it."

His nodded in respect. "An honor. Your talent must be more than 'just a hobby', Dietrich. Continue."

"He asked me to play the piano for him and his wife. They danced to a waltz and then retired for the evening." I did not share I recaptured their dance in my sketchbook nor the despair and anger I had felt afterwards.

Braddock sat back in his chair. "You are a true Renaissance man, Dietrich. Not only are you a successful soldier but a talented artist and pianist." He thought for a moment. "What happened to your sketch? Did you leave it for Rommel?"

I gave a bitter laugh. "Gone, lost in the war like everything else I possessed."

He abruptly changed subjects.

"You must be aware of Colonel von Stauffenburg's role in Hitler's assassination attempt."

"The Oberst's involvement was broadcast within the day."

"Did you know him?"

"I met him few times in the course of duty, when the both of us served in North Africa. But no, I would not say I knew him."

"Did you know of the assassination plot? Were you approached to participate in it?"

"No, I was serving in France. There was no reason for me to be approached since I had no contact with Hitler or his senior staff members."

"How were you informed of the attempt?"

I remembered as if it was yesterday. "We began receiving communiques late in the afternoon of an explosion occurring in East Prussia. First, it was reported Hitler was dead, and then, his status unknown. News soon followed of an attempted coup in Berlin. It was obvious all plots had failed when Hitler broadcasted in the early morning confirming he was, indeed, alive."

"Were you impacted afterwards?"

"The fallout was immediate and severe. The Nazis never trusted the Wehrmacht again. They had always been suspicious of the Wehrmacht, especially the officers from traditional military families such as mine. Everyone was required to re-swear our oath to Hitler and to give the Nazi salute instead of the traditional military salute."

"And you?"

"I re-swore, but depending on the senior officer we were saluting, several of us neglected the order regarding the Nazi salute."

"Did you meet or brief Hitler at any time?" Braddock's questions were rapid as were my responses.

"No."

"He didn't award you your Knight's Cross?"

"No, Herr Generalfeldmarschall Rommel awarded it to me. I had been severely wounded and was unable to travel to Berlin. It was decided for the Generalfeldmarschall to bestow it upon me in Africa. They wanted to use the ceremony for propaganda purposes."

"I see." He thought for a moment. "Did you know of Rommel's involvement?"

His question caught me off guard. "Involvement? In what?" My voice did not conceal my puzzlement.

"In Stauffenburg's assassination attempt against Hitler."

I was stunned. "I don't believe it." I immediately suspected a trick.

Braddock leaned forward. "He was. The Gestapo discovered his involvement and forced him to commit suicide or have his family face the consequences." He frowned. "Interesting. He seemed more the type of career soldier who would have shot himself instead of taking cyanide."

Something snapped within me. I could not believe Rommel would have betrayed his oath and then taken his life by cyanide. Rommel, a man whom I had idolized, a traitor and a coward? It was too much for me to comprehend.

"You're lying!" I screamed, unable to control myself. "I don't believe you! Rommel died from his injuries!" I leapt from my chair and slammed my hands on the table, leaning over Braddock. The guard shoved me back into my seat.

Braddock remained unfazed by my outburst, unflinching. He looked at me with no change in his expression. "I believe this is the first time you have shown any emotion, Dietrich, since I began interrogating you. We've accomplished enough for today. Guard, you may remove him."

The guard reached for my arm, but I angrily brushed him away. Returned to my room, I stared at the ceiling from my bed.

Briscoe was amused when I refused supper, still fuming. "Braddock got to you today, huh? Must have been a doozy of a session. Can't blame you for feeling this way. He thinks he's so high-falooting and so much smarter than everyone else, with his fancy degree from some big name college and his long words. He's not even a real doctor, just one of those head doctors that screw with your mind. I wouldn't send a goldfish to him."

"Fuck off, Briscoe." My cursing surprised him. He retreated and locked the door without comment.


	7. Chapter 6

I was still angry when the guard returned me to the interrogation room immediately after breakfast the next day.

I had waited for only a few moments until Braddock entered, alone.

"No guard nor translator, Braddock? To what do I owe the honor?" My voice dripped with sarcasm and contempt.

"Just the two of us this time," he responded, my outburst from yesterday ignored. He carried no briefcase, and had no writing pad to capture his notes.

He sat back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him.

"Tell me about your father."

"We have already discussed this during one of your earliest interrogations. I did not discuss the war with my father." His question irritated me, my frustration obvious.

"It's been impossible not to notice throughout the weeks I have been interrogating you, Dietrich, your avoidance of the subject of your father. It's become very obvious that Schnass, Rommel, and to a lesser extent, von Kleist, were all strong influences on your life, father figures for you. Interesting, the admiration you display for them is not demonstrated towards your own father."

Anger began to rise within me.

"Do you suffer from depression, Dietrich?"

His audacity shocked me and stoked my anger. "You misstep your authority, Braddock. Your question is irrelevant for interrogating me as a POW. This is hardly the setting for such a personal medical conversation when you not my physician. What are you attempting to do, add length to your official report with my personal psychoanalysis?"

"My question is for your gain, not mine, Dietrich. I'm giving you the opportunity to discuss it in an anonymous setting. Nothing you say will enter your record."

The situation was bordering on the comical. I had wanted to discuss my depression for years with a psychiatrist, refraining due to the shame it would cause my family and the difficulty it would cause me in my career. Now, I was being offered the services of a highly qualified doctor in an anonymous, although inappropriate, setting.

I glared at him, my jaw clenched.

He was unfazed by my obvious anger. No doubt he had received the same reaction from his former patients when he pried into their personal lives. "I believe you do suffer from depression and it has been exasperated by, or rather the lack of, the relationship you have with your father."

"What do you want from me, Braddock?"

His eyes locked with mine. "You drew Rommel's portrait, a very personal gesture. It was something more than just capturing his likeness. I would give you even odds you have never drawn your father's portrait."

His observation set me back. I had never thought to sketch my father. It would be impossible to capture someone of his stature.

"Do you drink? Heavily?"

I snorted. "Heavy alcohol consumption is common in any military when one faces death on a daily basis. Your question makes it obvious you have never fought on the front lines."

"Drugs?" he asked, ignoring my verbal jab at his lack of combat experience.

I remained silent.

"Again, this is a private conversation between us. No one else will know of anything you say here today."

"Hashish and heroin," I snapped. "In the past."

Curiosity, instead of revulsion, showed in his expression.

Braddock leaned forward. "Interesting. Can you tell me what it is like?"

I believed the exercise to be ridiculous. "Why?"

"I've never experimented with any type of drugs, let alone heroin. I'm curious and would like to learn more. You sharing your experience would be invaluable to me in my line of work."

If Braddock was so curious for scientific purposes, then why didn't he just simply take heroin himself, I wanted to snap. Not wanting to jeopardize delaying my release further, I remained silent, neither denying nor agreeing to his request.

Braddock must have taken this as my willingness to participate in his exercise. "Some people find it useful to close their eyes and relax while doing so," he prompted.

Wanting nothing more than to put this nonsense behind me, I closed my eyes and settled back in the chair, my arms folded tightly across my chest.

"Allow me to assist you with relaxing," he offered. "Begin by focusing on your breathing, the rise and fall of your chest. With each exhale, you release your anxiety. With each inhale, you push the relaxation down throughout your body. Your breathing is becoming deeper, your relaxation growing, and your anxieties fading with each breath."

I did as he suggested and my breathing deepened. The tension dissipated from my body, my arms fell to my sides. My mind began to calm.

Braddock was quiet as he gauged my progress through the exercise.

"Whenever you're ready," he encouraged. "When did you begin using heroin?"

"In Afrika, shortly before it fell in 1943."

"You desired drugs due to the stress of the war and the strong possibility of being captured or killed? By that time you had already been in combat for almost four years."

"No," I responded sharply. "I had always felt a contempt for those weak enough to use drugs. I began using heroin by chance. That is all I wish to say about it."

Braddock realized not to press me on the reason.

"Understood." He paused a moment, thinking. "Who did you procure it from?"

I did not answer for several seconds. "His name was Guest, the local supplier, in a neutral town frequented by both the Allied and the Axis forces."

"Since you had not used heroin before, he was the one to prepare and inject it for you?"

"Yes. Watching him prepare the drug and then administer it was rather . . ." I searched for the correct word to use, "seductive."

"Oh? In what way?"

I eagerly began describing the process. Braddock appeared to be a worldly man. He would understand why heroin had so easily been able to seduce me.

"The ritual builds upon itself, layering desire with each step. The powdered drug is dissolved in water while being heated over a flame. A leather strap would be tightened on my upper arm, causing the vein to raise along with the excitement and need. Then, the prick of the needle would soon follow, the warm fluid entering.

"The needle would be pulled out and the strap loosened, the heroin coursing through my body . . . All the while I would be watching Guest, waiting, desiring it, unable to stop him from doing it to me."

"Unable or unwilling?"

"Both."

After a shuddering breath, I stopped, reluctant to continue. Perhaps this alone would be enough to satisfy Braddock, without delving deeper into my depravity and dark secrets.

Of course, it wasn't enough for him. Hanging on the precipice of my darkest desire, I was not sure it was enough for me.

"A very realistic and detailed description of the drug process, but I would like you to share more. You have not mentioned how heroin impacts you, physically and psychologically."

Surprisingly, through the exercise prescribed, I was feeling the effects of the drug. With every breath, with every beat of my heart, they increased. If I loosened my diminishing hold on reality any farther, I would be able to give Braddock the information he sought. And, myself the experience I so desperately wanted.

But still, despite both our wants and needs, I hesitated.

"I would like you to follow my words: You are now able to feel the heroin traveling throughout your body." Braddock's voice was soothing, hypnotic. "No part is left untouched by the drug. It does not take long for you to be completely engulfed in its embrace. Are you beginning to feel it?"

I was, God help me.

When the dam of my remaining resistance crumbled, the familiar euphoria began rising within me, spreading out in a delicious wave. Powerless, I was swept along with it as it crested. When it finally broke, I was engulfed in a violent pleasure, from head to toe.

I wanted nothing more.

A heaviness overtook me. My head lolled against the chair back, my arms were loose against my body, and my breathing deepened further.

Unbidden, a long, low groan escaped me. It had been far too long since I had been filled by the heavenly bliss of heroin.

"Are you experiencing the full effects now?" Braddock's voice came from far away.

Unabashed, I answered him, nearly moaning in my ecstasy. "Yes, my God yes . . ."

"You are experiencing an extremely large dose of the highest quality of the drug. But don't worry, it will not harm you. Instead, if you allow it, it will take you to a higher place than it has ever before. A special place which only you are allowed to enter. Would you like to visit this place?"

"Yes." My voice was scarcely above a whisper. My body was shouting with desire and pleasure.

"Continue following my voice. I will help guide you there."

I deeply desired to journey with him to the Nirvana he had described. My eyes closed as I eagerly awaited his next words. If Braddock could lead me to where he had promised, then I would follow.

"You are traveling through the layers of your sub-conscious," Braddock intoned, "easily pushing them aside along with your fears. You find yourself more and more relaxed as you approach this place. You are so relaxed, you will believe yourself in a deep sleep. But, you are actually fully awake. Here you will feel safe to answer any of my questions. Have you arrived at this place?"

I barely managed a nod. Just as Braddock had guaranteed, the high was unreal, unlike anything I had ever experienced at the hands of Guest.

"Stay at this place for a while. No one can find you or harm you here. Enjoy it."

The heroin embraced me in its warm glow, blotting out all else. If I overdosed now, it would have been the ultimate, pleasurable end. But, there was no danger and no fear of death.

Braddock's voice reached me.

"Are you ready to share what you are experiencing? Don't worry, you will now be lucid enough to speak coherently."

"Heroin is . . . Indescribable."

"Can you try to put words to it?"

"Powerful, beautiful, enticing, numbing, a mixture of pleasure and pain. It is superior than the most intense sex . . ." my voice trailed off, an echo of Guest's words from the past.

"What is it about the heroin which makes it so powerful to you?"

"It allows me to completely escape my responsibilities and obligations. It gives me the freedom I have always desired."

"Freedom? From what?" he probed.

I hesitated, though the answer to his question was ready enough. I had known it from the cradle, and I had nearly carried it with me to the grave. But still, admitting it out loud gave me pause.

"The heroin has taken you far away to your special place," Braddock reinforced, "where no one can disturb us and nothing can harm you. You will be able to confide anything you wish to me."

Braddock's reassurance was enough to keep my demons at bay, behind a wall of ever building pleasure. My words came easily.

"The heroin provides me freedom to forget I am the son of a controlling father, and from the fear that I will be forever incapable of meeting his demands and expectations."

"When the heroin wore off previously, were you able to face these fears regarding your father?"

"No." My answer was sharp. "My fears of inadequacy always returned. After the first time I was given heroin, it took only a few days to fall into a vicious cycle, a cycle of craving, _needing_, it to escape. The drug would give me relief until the effects wore off. Then, my anxieties and fears would return. Multiplied and intensified by the shame of the weakness I felt for being unable to control the addiction."

"And, how do you feel now?"

My chest was tight and perspiration had begun to bead upon my forehead. "Anxious. I am afraid my high will end and my feelings of inadequacies will return."

"You have received a very large dose of pure heroin which will last a very long time, longer than what you have experienced in the past," Braddock reminded me. "Your fears are no match for it. Breath. Allow your mind and body to relax. Speak again only when you are comfortable."

With his reassurance, the calmness returned. With it, also pleasure.

I allowed myself several minutes of uninterrupted bliss before I began speaking. The words flowed from me, and I was unable to stop.

I told Braddock everything about my father and our strained relationship. He listened, asking a few occasional probing questions, pushing me to explore my fears.

"I have come to think of my father as an unattainable standard more so than I do as my father," I told him.

"He is one of the most extraordinary men I have ever met. As one soldier to another, I have high respect for all he has accomplished on the battlefield. A renowned general, he is also perceptive in cultivating professional and political relationships, as well as being a shrewd financial investor. He was the one out of several suitors to win the hand of my mother, a prominent Prussian socialite. He has been an excellent husband to her."

"What else?"

"Men envied and wanted to be him."

I stopped, unable to continue.

"Remain relaxed and finish, Dietrich," Braddock encouraged, knowing there was more and willing to wait for it. "You are safe to voice the thoughts and emotions you have been unable to admit in the past."

"I also wanted to be him."

My revelations had once again placed me in danger of losing my hold upon the heroin induced fortress Braddock had helped me create. Following his earlier instructions, I concentrated on fortifying my defenses until I had secured it once again.

"Dietrich?" Braddock prompted. "Are you still with me?"

I nodded, able to pick up where I had left off. "From childhood, men would offer condolences to my father that I was not the man he was, and never would be. It did not take long for me to believe it would be impossible for anyone, let alone me, to achieve such perfection."

"Strong words for anyone to hear, let alone a boy." Braddock made a sympathetic noise. "What was your reaction?"

"I avoided my father. I did not wish to be reminded how I could not be him. Instead, to survive emotionally, I worked to become his opposite in all aspects of my life."

"Yes? And, how did you try to do that?"

"I began getting into trouble at my boarding school. Nothing impacting my academics, just silly stuff. I began smoking cigarettes to defy him, since he believed them to be unhealthy. When I was older and began having sex, I would blatantly visit prostitutes, using the stipend he gave me to pay for them. I knew he would discover my actions and strongly disapprove.

"It was on the battlefield I most sought to differentiate myself from him, to at last prove I was his equal. Although, in a different way. I excelled at the modern form of warfare, which rewards those who move quickly and take risks. My service was recognized with commendations culminating with the Oak Leaves won at Jufra, bestowed by the Generalfeldmarschall. Generalfeldmarschall Rommel had become not only my teacher, but also my father during the ceremony."

"How was your relationship with Rommel different than the one you had with your father?"

I answered eagerly, wanting him to understand.

"The Generalfeldmarschall was young and dynamic, with a personality which aligned with my own. He encouraged me to be bold and to take risks in combat, to be willing to gamble for the calculated chance of winning. He expected me to operate independently, instead of dictating how I should think. He gave me the opportunities to enhance my career instead of impeding it."

"You never felt the same support from your father?"

"No." A darkness rose within me. "In fact, he tarnished all of the success I had earned by interfering in my career."

"How did he interfere?"

"There had always been a strong perception in the Wehrmacht my father was behind my advantageous postings and successes. He approached the Generalfeldmarschall to have me posted to North Africa instead of the Eastern Front. My father instinctively knew the Eastern Front would turn into an unwinnable quagmire for Germany. The Soviets would be brutal in retaliating against the Germans. And, as his only surviving son, he did not want me involved."

"Did Rommel really select you due to your father's request?"

"No. When I briefed the Generalfeldmarschall the final time, he informed me he had chosen me for his staff in Africa based on my record and merits, independent of the influences of my father."

"Did you approach your father when you discovered his actions?"

"Yes. I was livid. I wrote to him, severing ties with him and my family." My voice was harsh and blunt. "I would not be returning to Coburg and would emigrate from Germany after the war. I wanted to start over, far enough away where he could not have any influence over me again."

"You know that would have resolved nothing, Dietrich," Braddock said. "Your fears and anxieties would have followed you, no matter where you had gone. Did he contact you afterwards?"

"When the war was down to the last few months, he sent me a letter, asking to reconcile. He apologized and sought my forgiveness."

"Did you grant it?"

"I was willing. But in the end, I unable to do so. Outgoing mail delivery ceased the day I received his letter."

Braddock allowed me time to enjoy my high. It was I who broke the silence.

"There is more," I offered. "I also need to ask for his forgiveness."

"Yes?" was all Braddock asked, not pressing me for details.

"At the academy, I was angry when my father confronted me regarding the prank. Schnass had notified him and he had immediately traveled there. I did not want him to know of the incident, let alone intervene, believing I could handle the situation on my own.

"It was the first time in my life I had ever stood up to my father. We argued. He began belittling me on every aspect of my life. As much as he was hurting me, I wanted to hurt him. I said something I have come to deeply regret."

I stopped, ashamed, not wanting to continue.

"What did you say to him?"

"I accused my father of being a failure as an officer in the Great War. Not only failing Germany, but also his men by ordering them to their death without concern."

"His reaction?"

"He struck me across the face and told me I knew nothing of what I spoke. We did not speak again until my graduation, seven months later. Neither of us has ever again spoken to the other of the incident."

The heroin's comfort breached.

Tears began running down my cheeks.

"I did not know it at the time, but my father had spoken the truth. I had no idea what I was talking about." This admission was followed by another, even more painful than the last. "Heroin protected me not just with dealing with my father, but also my own failure as an officer, responsible for my own men's death. Heroin gave me freedom from the war and of being an officer, freedom from the guilt of ordering men to their deaths in my own unwinnable war."

My tears soon gave way to open sobs.

"You have confronted a dark, inner part of you," Braddock said.

"It is the truth, of me failing as an officer."

"There is another part of you which knows it is not the truth for either you or your father. You both led your men admirably given two horrific wars. Consider granting the forgiveness your father sought, and in turn, request forgiveness from him for your own misdeed. It will be difficult to do so, but it is necessary for your own peace. That alone will help you to truly gain the freedom you so desire."

It was difficult for me to believe him and Braddock was silent while I grappled with my despair and my doubt.

"You have been here for quite some time. It is time for you to return."

"Allow me to stay," I begged. "I do not want to leave."

"This place will remain within you, always offering its safety whenever you should need it. You can learn the skills to visit it whenever necessary. You have traveled a very long distance and are very tired. Soon you will begin your return journey when the heroin effects begin wearing off shortly."

As if connected to his words, the effects of the heroin began waning, the heaviness lifting. Reality was returning, just as it always did. I was tired, so very tired, and I could not resist Braddock as he pulled me towards it.

"When the heroin wears off, you will remain calm, with no cravings for it. It will be as if you have awoken from a long and refreshing sleep, relaxed and comfortable. Am I correct?"

"Yes." I was coming down easy, unlike from my previous highs.

"Afterwards, you will remember our conversation. You will have no shame in what you confided to me, only strength. You will use this strength to deal with your fears in the future."

An unknown time passed before Braddock spoke again.

"You may open your eyes; you have returned."

I opened my, sitting up in the chair, surprised to find myself in the interrogation room. A cool draft of air ghosted across the wetness of my face. I wiped away the remainder of my tears. Braddock was sitting there as before. His expression was neural, as if we had been discussing a novel, instead of my deepest and darkest fears. The ashtray in front of him was filled with crushed cigarette butts.

He rose and gave a few soft knocks to the door. "Guard," he called. The door was soon opened. Braddock gave me a nod. "Thank you, Major, for your time. I have no further questions." He started to leave, but turned back to me. "Sometimes, Dietrich, there is glory in being wrong."

Briscoe was waiting at my cell. He made a point of looking at his watch. "You must have had some session with Braddock today. I thought you'd never show up. You know, I'm not off duty until I account for you."

"It's been less than an hour." My calmness remained, blocking the normal irritation Briscoe caused me.

"An hour?" he snorted. "More like ten. You missed your lunch and dinner. I can have a sandwich brought for you if you're hungry."

The man was as delusional as much as he was an idiot. He must be mistaken. I waved him away.

"No, I have no desire for food, just sleep." He stared at me, looking more bovine than normal, but unlocked the door. I stripped down, and fell into bed. I slept deeply.

Late the next morning, Briscoe banged open the door without the curtesy of a knock. He threw a large parcel wrapped in brown paper onto the bed.

"Get dressed, Major. You're checking out."

I closed my book and placed it aside. "Where am I being transferred?" I was not unhappy at the news. Different surroundings would at least break up the monotony of my captivity.

Briscoe gave me a broad smile. "You'll find out soon enough. Go clean up. I've left a shaving kit for you in the shower room. Schnell! Schnell! You're keeping others waiting." He left, slamming the door behind him, but leaving it unlocked.

I reached for the parcel. With curiosity and anticipation, I tore open the paper. Out tumbled my Wehrmacht uniform along with my boots and cover. The boots were freshly polished, glowing with a deep glossy shine. The uniform had been cleaned and pressed, with the blood stains removed. Somehow, a very talented tailor had managed to repair the gaping tears. Still attached were my insignias, and I considered it a miracle an American souvenir hunter had not stolen them. My pay book and my identity disk were enclosed in a small paper bag.

I stared at the heavy gray fabric before reaching out to touch it. My hands spread across the uniform, my fingertips ghosting over the insignias and the places where my medals had once been pinned.

Feeling overcame me as I felt the power my uniform still contained. After several minutes, I gathered my emotions and shoved them aside. As done countless times when serving, I laid out my uniform precisely on the bed before going down the hall to shower and shave.

After returning, I stripped off the Allied issue, keeping only the undershirt and shorts. I folded the rest and placed it on the chair.

My heavy blouse still showed faint blood stains. I eagerly pulled on the trousers, shrugging the braces over my shoulders and tucking the blouse inside. I buttoned up my tunic, latching the high collar at my throat. I slipped on the boots and finally, placed the cover firmly on my head.

I inspected myself in the polished metal circle which served as small mirror. The uniform no longer hung on me. Thanks to my American captors, I had gained weight.

I grinned at my reflection. Damn, I looked good. There wasn't a uniform in the world which could compare to a German officer's.

Smoothing my uniform a final time, I felt something in the left tunic pocket. It was Braddock's business card, showing his New York address. Turning it over, there was writing on the back:

**_"Contact me when you visit the United States. We can continue our conversation, if you like."_**

I stared at it for several seconds, remembering our last session, before returning the card to my pocket. A sudden rap at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"Enter," I called.

As per normal, Briscoe barged in, but stopped short when he saw my transformation. Gaping, he looked me up and down. He came to attention and smartly saluted, a gesture I returned.

"Sir."

"Dispose of the chewing gum, Corporal," I ordered him.

"Yes, sir!" he responded. Obediently, he spat out the wad and put the mess behind his ear.

"Where is Major Braddock? I would like to see him."

He was surprised by me asking for the American major. "He got called away unexpectedly late last night. He won't return for a few days."

"Paper and pencil then, so I may write a note to him."

"Ummm, I don't think there's time for letter writing."

I stifled my disappointment. "Very well, Corporal. Convey my regards. Shall we proceed?"

"Sir, if you would follow me."

I swept up my lighter from the nightstand and placed it into my pocket. Placing my folded greatcoat on my arm, I left without a second glance to the room.

My boots echoed like staccato shots as I walked briskly down the hall. My presence commanded respect, and the sea of Americans parted way for us. As custom required, the lower ranks saluted me, a few with their mouths nearly hanging open in surprise. I crisply returned their salutes as a German officer would, a sharp contrast to the relaxed, sloppy returns many of the American officers normally gave to their own soldiers.

We reached an anteroom where several people were waiting. They looked up when we entered. Their expressions changed from hopeful to disappointment when they realized I was not the loved one they sought. Briscoe handed me a packet of documents and faded away.

In the crowd, there was one face which had changed from hope to joy.

The stout, older man stood and approached. He stopped and clicked his heels and gave a short bow before engulfing me in a strong embrace. He released me, tears forming in his eyes.

"It has been a long two years since I have had the honor of being in your presence, Young Dietrich," Andreas Kohl said in the Lower Silesian we always spoke together.

"Yes, it has been too long, Kohl, but I am here now."

"We were notified by the Amis, you were being released," he said. "Allow me to carry your belongings."

"I have nothing except what I have on me. Let us leave and return home."


	8. Chapter 7

It was the first time I had been outside the compound without an American guard or escort since Troy had brought me here over three months ago. It was indescribable to be free again. I felt like a young child, coming home for the first time since being away at boarding school. In a way, it was the same. I had not been home in years.

Kohl escorted me to the large black Mercedes parked nearby. My father must have been able to obtain scarce petrol coupons for the vehicle. I removed my cover and sat in the front with Kohl, and he pulled out cautiously.

The road was crowded with American military vehicles, many with soldiers hanging from them, jeering at us. Kohl was almost forced off the road several times by the reckless American drivers. He would shake his fist, cursing in heavily accented English which few of them could comprehend.

I heard little of Kohl's attempt at conversation, and said less. My focus was what lie outside the automobile.

The area still showed signs of heavy combat, the terrain scarred and with few trees left standing. It was littered with burned out hulks of tanks and equipment, a mixture of American and German. Mercifully, all the bodies had been buried. I remembered when my father had taken me to the Ypres battlefield as a child. It had been over a decade since the battle, but the landscape still showed evidence of the futile combat which had consumed countless men. Would the combat scars remain in Germany after ten years?

As we neared Coburg, the signs of combat lessened. There had been no fighting in the vicinity and I thanked God Coburg had been spared. We skirted the city and Kohl turned unto the narrow road leading to the estate.

"The estate was almost lost to the Americans, Young Dietrich." Kohl's voice cut through my thoughts.

I turned to face him, rotating as much as my still tender wounds would allow.

"For what reason? The family was not a supporter of Hitler and did not belong to the Nazi party. There would have been no justification for them to seize the property."

Kohl shrugged. "The American commanding general in the area took a fancy to the place. Thought it would make a good headquarters for him as he ruled over Coburg."

"How was he stopped?"

"It was your father, Young Dietrich. He went and spoke with American officials, the higher ups. They were more reasonable men and the issue resolved itself."

Left unsaid was how my father had convinced them to be "more reasonable". The firm set of Kohl's jaw gave notice he would divulge no further details out of loyalty to my father.

"Anyway, we haven't been bothered by an Ami since then," Kohl continued in a lighter tone. "Several Americans have called on the family, but they have all been respectful and professional."

We reached the gates and Kohl drove up the long driveway. Grass and weeds grew among the gravel. Alongside the entrance road, several of the plants were over a meter high. I looked out over the lawns where my parents had hosted lavish garden parties. Once lush and green, the manicured grass had been replaced by a scrubby brown landscape, dotted green by weeds. The trees were overgrown and unpruned. The contrast between reality and my memories was shocking.

But then . . . What should I have expected? The maintenance had slid during my last visit, even before the war had taken a drastic downturn against Germany.

Our estate had once been one of the most beautiful properties in Germany.

Once.

There were more important things in life. I should be thankful for my extended family surviving the war intact. We were fortunate to even possess a house, let alone an entire compound, when others had suffered such extreme losses. With hard and dedicated work, the estate would once again attain its luster and former glory.

Kohl pulled up in front of the main house. I stepped from the automobile, staring at the house where I had been born.

My God! I was home. I had actually survived the war along with my family.

The front door flew open. Liesl rushed outside, followed by my family. She threw her arms around my neck, smothering me in kisses.

"Welcome home, dearest brother!" she said, her face overcome by joy. "It has been my death without you. You have been away for far too long. I so wanted to visit you when you were in hospital, but Papa and Mutti thought it best for me to stay here."

"Ah, Liesl! Life has been dull without you. There is a void when you are not present." I kissed her on the cheek before placing my arm around her waist and propelling her towards where the others were waiting.

I stepped first to my father who stood stiff with formality. Only his eyes betrayed his emotion.

"Sir," I said. I gave him a short nod and stood before him.

"Hans Erich," he said in a soft voice. "The good Lord has answered my prayers." In a surprise gesture, he engulfed me in a warm hug. It was the only time in my life I could remember him being demonstrative towards me.

When he released me, I moved to my mother. She was weeping, the tears streaming down her face. She kissed me on both cheeks. "My darling son," she said in a soft voice. "Thank God you have been returned to us."

The only one not crying was Schnass, his eyes as bright and clear. He placed his gnarled hands on my shoulders, holding me tight. "My boy, you have made it home. All these years, I never doubted your survival. Of any of my cadets over the years, I knew you would be the one to accomplish the most."

I turned to Fraulein Rosen who was sobbing, unable to speak. She pulled me close to her ample bosom, and held me there for several seconds. Her hand went to my face, stroking it, as if to reassure her I was indeed here.

"Let us go inside, Hans, for champagne," my father said. "Kohl, the automobile can be garaged later."

"I'll help carry your things, Hans," offered Liesl.

"There is nothing to carry, Liesl." Her mouth opened in a round "O", before recovering.

"Well, you always were one to travel light," she said, trying to make light of the situation. "I just didn't think you would take it to such an extreme."

I swept off my cover as we entered the house, running my hand through my hair. I quickly inspected the foyer, glancing around the large entranceway. After Kohl's comment of the American's trying to assume the estate, I expected the interior to be empty, the contents stripped by the invaders. Instead, everything was as before.

My mother led the way to the drawing room. Liesl went to the sideboard where several bottles of champagne were chilling in ice buckets. She popped a bottle open, squealing when it bubbled up and ran down the side. She began pouring the champagne into coupes, filling them too high and splashing it down the sides. I gave her a smile and assumed the bottle from her.

"Allow me," I said and began pouring.

"I've never been too domestic, have I?"

"It is part of your charm, my dear," I reassured her. Her eyes bright, she proceeded to distribute the wine without spilling too much onto the carpet.

My father raised his glass and my family fell silent.

"To Hans, my son, who has returned to us. May we drink to his honor today, together in ten years time and a few in between."

I raised my glass, appreciatively. I sipped the champagne, savoring its fine taste, enjoying being able to share it with my family. When was the last time I had champagne? Had it actually been with Agathe, our final night together in Italy?

Liesl wrestled open another bottle. She attempted to refill my glass, but I held my hand over the coupe. "Are you trying to get me tight, Liesl, my first night home? I haven't had a drink in months and am already feeling the effects from the original glass."

"After just one?" she scoffed. "Boy, you've gone soft! You used to be able to drink anyone under the table."

"Not anymore," I laughed, enjoying bantering with her as we had done since we were children. "I assure you, though, it is merely from lack of opportunity to practice."

"Then you need to be built up again," she responded, pushing my fingers apart and sloshing a generous amount into my glass.

"Supper should be ready," exclaimed Fraulein Rosen. "Allow me a few moments to serve. Herr Dietrich, again, welcome home."

Frau Rosen appeared again to announce supper was served. I downed my remaining champagne in a single take.

"Now you're drinking like the brother I've always known," exclaimed a delighted Liesl.

"Hans, if you would be so kind?" my mother asked.

"Mother, it would be an honor." I offered her my arm and escorted her into the dining room.

The table was set with the same Bavarian china which had graced the table before the war. Fraulein Rosen placed the serving dishes on the table before sitting next to me. We joined hands and bowed our heads. My father offered a simple grace.

There was more food than expected, and I suspected my family had splurged their ration coupons to lay a feast for their prodigal son. We took our time eating, laughing and talking about anything and everything except the war. The shadows began to lengthen and Fraulein Rosen, with Liesl's assistance, began gathering the dishes.

"No doubt you are tired, Herr Dietrich and would like to rest. I have readied your room. Just to warn you: The electricity is sporadic. There is an oil lamp and matches on your nightstand in case you should need them."

"Thank you, Fraulein Rosen. It will be fine," I reassured her. "It is a minor thing."

"Very well. Let me know if there is anything else you should need."

"Sir, if you will excuse me," I asked my father. "It has been a beautiful, but long day. I am grateful to be home, and I thank God for returning me." I gave my father a nod before kissing my mother and sister goodnight.

I walked up the stairs, feeling embraced by the house. I was the latest Dietrich for it to welcome home after the ravages of war.

When I reached my room, I closed the door, locking it behind me. I casually tossed my cover on the desk before undoing my collar to ease the tight confines around my neck.

I went to the French doors and opened them wide, allowing the air to circulate and to freshen the room. The balcony was cool and inviting in the summer evening. My room was located at the back of the house and there was nothing to obstruct my view of the surrounding countryside. The distant foothills were covered with trees, beautiful in the still evening. My room had the most scenic view on the estate, even more attractive than the one from my parents' room.

I leaned on the balustrade, enjoying the scenery. Inside, the lights went out. A faint curse from Kohl came from the direction of the stables, carrying in the still night air. I closed the windows and drew the drapes, before lighting the oil lamp with a match.

It was time to go to work.

I dragged the desk chair over to the closet. Standing on the chair, I strained to reach the panel hidden in the front upper wall. I slid it aside, feeling for the case always kept there. My fingers touched the smooth, wooden box and brought it forth. Replacing the panel, I took the box and chair back to the desk.

The case was covered with dust, untouched from when I had hid it over two years ago. I wiped it off and unlatched the case. The black Walther glistened in the glowing light, a beautiful weapon to see. It had been well stored, but I would take no chances.

I took the Walther apart and began the ritual of cleaning and oiling it, taking my time. When satisfied it was in perfect working order, I reassembled it and loaded it. I brought the weapon up, feeling its weight, remembering how the weapon fired. I sighted an imaginary target down the barrel without emotion. It was an accurate weapon and I had always shot well with it.

It was the Walther I had used to kill Wansee.

It had been a difficult shot with a handgun from such a distance, but the Walther had not failed me.

My actual report of the incident had been, for the most part, truthful. I stated that I had departed before the Rat Patrol attacked, but had witnessed the short, fierce conflict from a distance, too far away to engage in it before it was over. Omitted was my firing of the single shot, trading Wansee's life for Miss Arno's and Moffitt's.

Wansee had been buried with honors by his SS brothers in the desert. My round had remained inside of Wansee, and the secret of his death by a fellow German officer had gone to the grave with him.

The SS had been livid, believing his death had been of Troy's doing. Ignored were Wansee's actions witnessed by his men, his obvious madness, his responsibility for the death of a Swiss neutral. They had vowed revenge against the Rat Patrol, but the SS had had no more success than I in capturing Troy. It was one of the few occasions I truly was relieved for Troy to have eluded the Germans.

Recklessly, I had kept the weapon, rationalizing that having it unexpectedly disappear would have raised suspicions, especially those of the SS. Disposing of it in the desert would have forced me to explain losing my sidearm. Instead, I had brought the Walther home the next time I was on leave. With regret, I had prepared it to go dormant, knowing it was too dangerous to retain it as my sidearm. The Walther I had hidden previously became my sidearm, returning with me to the desert.

Reality returned me to my room.

I frowned. It had been months since I had shot any weapon, and I was out of practice. It would be impossible for me to regain my skill without drawing attention to the family. The possession of weapons by Germans was illegal. The no weapons directive, along with several others which didn't suit my current circumstances, would be conveniently ignored as needed. The Walther was returned to its case and placed in the nightstand for ready access.

I stretched, looking around my room.

The room was unchanged from my last visit, which had lasted for only a few nights. Even before the war, I had rarely stayed at my parent's home for long. I preferred to spend the majority of my leave elsewhere, traveling to other countries with my friends or staying at hotels with various women.

The room provided no hint of the man who had infrequently stayed there according to his whims. It seemed to belong to someone else, as impersonal as an opulent hotel room.

Over the sum total of my entire life, I had actually spent very little time at home. There had been boarding school since childhood. Summers had been filled with extended school, holidays only a few short days here and there. Upon graduating from gymnasium, I had immediately entered the Academy. Then, my Wehrmacht service had begun to be followed by almost six years of war.

Now, for the first time in my life since my childhood, I would be remaining here. For once, there was no other place for me.

I stripped off my uniform and hung it in the closet, placing it to the back. There would be no reason to wear it in the future. It would be boxed and placed in the attic with my Afrika Korps issue.

I was fortunate to have left behind civilian clothes over the years. Clothing was now nearly as scarce as food. The drawers contained sweaters and undergarments. In the closet hung shirts, trousers, a winter coat and a tuxedo, which was laughable. Who would be throwing an event requiring such formal attire? Offsetting the useless tuxedo were a pair of heavy work boots. The boots alone were worth a premium on the black market.

The long day of conflicting emotions and memories caught up with me. Weariness overcame me, and I wanted nothing more than a long night's sleep until late tomorrow.

I took a long shower, but used the small bar of soap sparingly. Slipping into bed, the clean, crisp sheets felt cool against my skin. I sunk down deep into the feather mattress and stretched out across the large bed.

It felt wonderful to sleep in a regular bed which fit my tall frame, although it was way too soft. Even the thin straw mattresses in the hospital and the detention annex had seemed soft. The feather mattress was like sleeping on a cloud. I had grown far to used to sleeping on a hard, narrow cot. Or, during the last months of the war, on the ground next to a panzer if the field conditions called for it.

Sleep soon overcame me. I slept deeply without any dreams to disturb me.


	9. Chapter 8

They came at me from the deep darkness of my heavy sleep. It began as a distant hum, but the intensity of the sound soon increased. I recognized the noise, and the intent. The high pitched engine whine announced the rapid approach of American fighters. They meant to strafe my camp.

Instinct and adrenaline took over, as they had so many times during the war.

I threw myself from my narrow cot to the deck.

My hand sought my service holster and I pulled out the Walther. Crawling along, low to the ground, I armed the weapon before opening the tent flap to confront the intruders.

I looked up. Two sleek aircraft were coming in low, their silver undersides flashing blindingly in the early morning light. I knew I had only moments before they opened fire.

I brought up my weapon and tracked them. Counting the seconds, I waited for the moment which would yield the perfect shot. My finger tightened on the trigger as they approached, their bellies brushing the tree tops.

The trees . . .

I blinked, suddenly confused. Had we camped near an oasis?

And, even if we had, when I had ever seen such trees in Afrika?

My distraction lasted for a mere second. It had been enough. The American jets roared overhead, and away towards the horizon.

My senses returned. Along with them, reality. This was not North Africa, nor was it France. I was in Germany, at my home in Coburg.

The war was over.

It took a few minutes for my breathing and heart rate to return to normal.

I engaged the safety on the Walther and shut the windows. The noise of the fighters still thrummed in my ears, an echo of the past, but still very much a part of the present.

The Americans had made it clear: They owned this part of Germany.

It would have been impossible for me to return to sleep. I shaved and dressed, the ill-fitting civilian clothes feeling foreign on my thin frame.

The house remained quiet as I made my way to the kitchen. Fraulein Rosen was already up, preparing for the day.

"Good morning, Herr Dietrich. Your first day home, I thought you would have taken the advantage to sleep late."

"The American airplanes woke me. It sounded like they were about ready to strafe the estate." I snorted and shook my head. "I'm surprised they were able to clear the trees they were so low."

She looked at me and frowned. "They did? When?"

"A few moments ago."

She glanced at the clock. "Yes, they would be right on time. If the weather is clear, a pair normally fly by at 06:30 every morning. You could set your watch by them. They're been doing it for the last few months." She shrugged. "I'm so used to it I don't notice them anymore. Just to warn you, they will do it again at 3:15 this afternoon, from the other direction. If the Americans are bored, they will do three flyovers a day. Sometimes they will do a few rolls or loops. I think the pilots do it to amuse themselves as much as us. It provides everyone some much needed entertainment."

Entertainment? I would find it anything but entertaining. And, it would be a very long time before I would not notice them.

She gave a laugh. "However, the real entertainment is Andreas. He normally runs outside and shakes his fist while yelling a few colorful metaphors. He should have become used to them by now, like the rest of us. I try to be near, just to watch his reaction."

She indicated the stove.

"There's 'coffee', if you like. It tastes horrible, but it will warm you up before breakfast."

She reached for a delicate china cup, but I waved her away. There were heavy ironstone mugs on the sideboard, vessels much more common from my years of in the military. I poured myself a half cup, ensuring enough remained for the others. The ersatz brew tasted harsh and bitter, but not as bad as I was expecting. Cream or sugar would improve the taste, but I knew better than to request something unavailable.

I walked down to the stables where I knew Kohl would be. He lodged in a small apartment above the stables to remain close to the horses. But now, there were no horses and there had been none for years.

Kohl was in front of the stables, raking at the few sparse leaves with a vigor not required by the task.

"Did you see them, the bastards?" His voice dripped with contempt, his anger making his accent more pronounced.

"I take it you mean the American fighter planes?"

"Who else could it be, but THEM?"

"It would have been rather hard for me not to have seen or heard THEM, Kohl."

"Every day, twice a day, they do this, just like clockwork. Mein Gott! I would love to give them a piece of my mind," he growled, shaking his fist at the long departed fighters.

He finished raking and motioned for me to follow him into the stables. He replaced the rake in the tool closet before looking down the empty rows of stalls. He took a few steps, sadness overcoming him.

"All gone, Young Dietrich. All the horses are gone."

He began walking down the aisle stopping at various stalls, commenting on the many steeds which had once stabled inside. The stalls were impeccable, bright and airy, not a single cobweb in any corner. They were ready to be occupied at any moment.

Kohl motioned to the ladder leading up to the loft. I placed my mug on a railing and followed him. The large area had been swept clean, not even a stray wisp of hay or straw remaining on the wooden floor. He went to the window and opened it, allowing the sunlight to stream in. We looked out, both of us remembering the countless times we had galloped across the green lawns.

"I promise you, Kohl." I put my hand on his shoulder. "Someday the stable will contain horses again and you will be their master."

"Your father said the same words, Young Dietrich. Such a promise seems to be an impossibility at the moment. I doubt if there is a single horse alive in Germany. Those that did not die supporting the war effort were eaten or confiscated by the Bolsheviks." He sighed. "My dream has always been to ride with you, your father and your son. You had better hurry. I'm not getting any younger, you know."

"Neither am I." I cocked an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps I should marry first and then replace the horses?"

He laughed. "Ah, Young Dietrich! You have been away for far too long. Wives are easier to find than horses due to the severe shortage of men. But I dare say, many men would much prefer to have a horse to a wife these days. They are more useful and worth their weight in gold. There is so much which could be accomplished if only we had a single horse or mule."

Breakfast was simple, bordering on Spartan. My father again said grace, offering thanks, all of us grateful for what food we did have. It was common knowledge that many Germans had nothing to eat, some resorting to begging the American soldiers for whatever scraps they would provide.

Just as Fraulein Rosen had predicted, the American fighters returned precisely at 15:15. In the distance, Kohl ran out and shook his fist at them, adding a few choice Silesian curse words for good measure.

The next morning, I woke early before the dawn. The electricity was not working so I shaved by candlelight. Not wanting to disturb anyone, I crept down the stairs and made my way to the dark kitchen.

Using my lighter, I searched the cabinets for a beverage container. I found a tall flask and filled it with water, placing it in a rucksack before slipping out the side door into the darkness.

A path behind the main estate led to the nearby forest. There was no moon to light the way, but no light was needed. I easily found the path, and was soon surrounded by trees which were far older than me. Though it had been years since I had travelled this way, I was so familiar with the route I could have walked it blindfolded. Nothing had touched it. Not the years, and not the war. I walked with confidence.

The slope increased, my journey requiring me to climb into the hills. Several times, my poor physical condition forced me to stop to catch my breath and to sip the water. Perspiring heavily I began shedding layers, stuffing them into the rucksack. Once, I had been able to make this hike without stopping, and in half the time it was now taking me. My wounds, my hospitalization and captivity, not to mention the poor nutrition during the final months of the war, had taken their toll. My body would be stiff and aching tomorrow, but it would be worth it.

The dawn was began to melt the shadows. There was little time remaining before the dawn broke. I willed myself to press on.

The trees began to thin near the ridge. I stepped out into the clearing, a cool breeze rising up from below to ruffle my hair. I walked out to the center as the sun began to crest. It burst into glory, and its rays warmed my body and reached into my soul. I closed my eyes, turning my face to feel its warmth.

This was the powerful moment I had dreamed about, that I had prayed for every day of the last six years. I had survived the war when so many of my fellow soldiers and friends had not.

I thanked God for delivering me and asked for His forgiveness for the lives I had taken. With my eyes still closed, I stretched out my arms, the palms turned upward seeking His grace. The sun strengthened and the breezed quickened, signs indicating my prayers had been heard.

I opened my eyes to once again to take in the beauty before me. The view of the countryside was breathtaking and I treasured it. I vowed to return someday, to once again give thanks.

The peacefulness was broken by the distant sounds of the approaching American fighters.

Damn them!

I possessed no watch, but looked up at the sun to gauge the time. Yes, it was nearing 06:30. The Americans were approaching for their flyby. They would pass near me before dropping down and flying over the estate.

Suddenly, their angle of approach changed. They had noticed me and were flying in to investigate.

I stood my ground fearlessly as they approached. They were probably readying their guns, believing me to be a threat. They dropped in altitude and roared over me, the sound deafening. Unexpectedly, the pair banked and circled back, returning. Their speed slowed and when they passed over me again, they waggled their wings. They had dropped their altitude and I could clearly see one of the pilots as he waved at me.

Hesitantly, I returned his greeting. They veered off, continuing on their original course, gradually disappearing from sight.

I started back down the hill, the sun warm against my back. The forest was cool, a refreshing respite from the rising summer heat. The light shone through the branches and the wind rustled the leaves. Something caught my eye off to the side. It was a bramble patch, bursting with berries. Sharp hunger pangs hit me. I went to the nearest cane and pulled several berries from their stems, stuffing them into my mouth. Their tart sweetness was delicious.

After several mouthfuls, I stopped for thoughtfulness. The others should also enjoy the unexpected treat. I had not thought of finding food during my hike and had nothing to put the berries in. They would be crushed if carried in the rucksack. A solution presented itself: There was a huntsman's cabin nearby. Surely, I could find some sort of suitable container there.

The cabin was rustic, backing up against the hillside and blending into the trees. Next to it was an ample supply of wood and a small lean-to, used to shelter horses from the weather. If one did not know it was there, it could be easily overlooked. It would have made an excellent place to hide. I approached the cabin with caution, expecting it to have been appropriated by someone displaced by the war. But there was a thick pile of leaves and needles blown up against the door and the cabin appeared to be empty.

There was no outside lock on the door and I pushed it open with a loud creak. The cabin was stale smelling and dark. I went to one of the wooden windows and opened it.

The well-built structure was a single room. A small heating stove stood in the middle, wood stacked next to it. Several thick candles and matches lay on a small table which was flanked by two narrow bed racks. The thin straw mattresses were rolled up against the wall, exposing the bare wooden slats. The only decoration on the walls was a shaving mirror, clouded over from time, and a small axe hanging from a peg. In the corner was a broom. A few shelves held basic utensils and plates along with a few mugs and a battered coffee pot.

I glanced up to the ceiling. There was no evidence of water damage. The structure was still tightly sealed. All in all, it was remarkably just as I remembered. I ran my finger along a mug's edge and it came back covered with dust. No one had been here for years, probably not since my last visit.

I had often "camped" here with my friends in the summer. As I had grown older, I had more frequently stayed at the cabin alone when visiting from the academy or when home on leave. It provided a welcome refuge away from my father in the solitude and serenity the forest offered.

I sat down on one of the beds remembering the fun times enjoyed here with my school friends before the war.

Before the war, before the war, before the war . . .

The words rang in my ears until I could hardly bear it.

Would the war always be used as the demarcation? Would I truly ever be able to forget the war and begin again? What if surviving proved to be worse than dying? What if my life was never again as happy as it had been before the war?

Before the war, before the war, before the war . . .

I shook my head to clear it and shoved aside the thoughts. Against all odds, I had survived the past. And, it was exactly that, the past. I had to keep the same faith that the future would sort itself. It was time to focus on living for today.

In the corner was a pail. It would hold an ample supply of berries. I closed the window and pulled the door tight behind me. I placed a pine needle in the door frame at an odd angle, near the bottom. If the needle disappeared, it would indicate the cabin had been entered by someone else. The needles and leaves were replaced against the door. Before leaving, I filled my flask from the hand pump behind the cabin. Stiff and rusty from lack of use, it took several attempts to bring forth water. But when it spilled out, it was glorious. The water was cool and refreshing, tasting of the mountains.

I filled the pail with berries in no time, leaving the bush still laden with fruit. I would return tomorrow to gather more and cut some of the budding canes for my mother. She could plant them in the garden to provide food in the future.

The downhill trek was much easier. I increased my pace and continued without halting, pushing myself hard. It was time to force my body to begin recovering from six years of war and abuse. I had ample time on my hands. There was no excuse for it to remain out of shape.

Fraulein Rosen was in the kitchen when I returned. "Ah, Herr Dietrich! You left early this morning and missed breakfast. I wrapped some rolls for you. They're on the sideboard."

"Thank you. I hiked up to the ridge to greet the dawn. Here, I found a bramble patch in the forest," I explained when handing her the berries.

She almost clapped her hands in delight. "The berries will be a welcome treat! I can't remember the last time we've had any. I will prepare them for lunch."

At the mention of lunch, my stomach growled. It was of little wonder. Except for a handful of berries, I had had nothing to eat since last night's supper. I unwrapped the rolls from a clean napkin and began eating them, forcing myself not to wolf them down.

"I will return to the patch tomorrow and gather more," I said between bites. "There's quite a few, but it won't take long for the birds and other animals to find them, too."

"Any bit of food will be of assistance." She indicated no embarrassment, just frank reality. "You missed the excitement this morning. The American airplanes were late, Herr Dietrich," she informed me, placing great importance on the news.

I leaned against the counter, finishing the final crumbs of my breakfast. I raised my eyebrows. "Were they?"

"Yes, very odd. It is the first time their routine has varied. Perhaps sometime soon, they won't fly over at all."

Reality was far different. "I don't believe the Americans, or the other Allies for that matter, will leave Germany in the foreseeable future. We can only pray the future will not be far off."

I excused myself and went upstairs to shower.

I stopped immediately after entering my room.

On the desk was the box I had shipped to Kohl in the desperate closing weeks of the war. Packed within it were the few remaining belongings I had possessed at the time.

What had seemed so important then had been overshadowed by the events of the days which had followed. I had never asked Kohl if he had received it and had completely forgotten about it. Perhaps I had subconsciously assumed the box had been lost in the chaos and collapse of the Reich. Just like everything else.

But, it hadn't. It was here, now, in my room.

I touched the twine holding it together. It was obvious the box had not been opened. Kohl would have known what the box had contained and the reason why I had sent it to him. Perhaps he held off opening it until official word arrived of my survival.

Or, of my death.

I cut the string with my penknife. Finally relieved of its duty, it separated with a sharp twang.

Scents from long ago arose from the box, and with them, they brought memories. The pungent smell of diesel fuel mixed with the freshness of the desert and the salt air of coastal France, the unmistakable heavy iron scent of spilt blood.

These all paled next to the nauseating odor of Guest's cologne.

My instructions to Kohl were still nestled on top in a thick, sealed envelope. I picked it up, exposing the items packed beneath it. Six years of my life were packed into the small box. Except for my lighter and battered uniform, it was all which remained of my military life.

I wanted to touch each of my belongings, to feel them and to restore them to life, to reinforce their importance and the tangible reality of my past. A flood of emotions prevented me from doing so. It was all too much. Perhaps, it was all too soon.

I replaced the letter and the lid, and retied the twine around the box. When everything was how it was, I carried it to the closet. I opened the bottom drawer and released a latch. A narrow passage way was revealed. It was the second, and the last hiding spot, I had had built into my room.

It was narrow and tight, but could hide a man if necessary. For the last four years it had sheltered my Georgia O'Keefe paintings. The paintings had been professionally prepared and wrapped, as their beauty and value demanded. Pristine, and shielded from both the elements and the madness of the war, there they waited for me to rediscover their magnificence once again.

Someday, but not soon. There was not yet a place for such beauty in such an ugly world.

Honestly, I was not sure I was ready for it, either.

I opened the hidden passageway just wide enough to shove the box inside before closing it. It would remain hidden along with the artwork until Germany and I had recovered.


	10. Chapter 9

I soon fell into the daily routine of the estate. The majority of the buildings were closed off. With the limited labor available, the focus had been on maintaining the principal residence. It had been impossible for Kohl and my father to keep up the full estate on their own the last year. Schnass' poor physical condition prevented him from assisting, and my father would not hear of the three women, especially my mother, doing any physical labor.

For the most part, the structures were in good shape despite having had little maintenance performed on them during the war. It would be only a matter of time, though, for the elements to begin reclaiming them through the toll of neglect.

The thought of losing my family's ancestral home, the one which I had once avoided, but now I had embraced since my return, filled me with a passion to ensure its survival. The estate had almost been seized by the vengeful Allies. I would not have it rot into the ground. It would not become yet another relic of a shattered Germany.

I expressed my concerns with my father one day when walking the grounds. He brushed them aside. "You need not worry. It has been in my family for generations and will remain so in the future. One day it will be yours." He continued walking at a steady pace, his hands clasped behind his back. I began to protest when he stopped and turned to me.

"If everything falls to the ground, so be it. We will start over. If not in my lifetime, then in yours or your sons'. The family being together is what matters. The land will endure, as will we."

My mother worked in the garden and greenhouse and also tended the fruit trees. She was a constant sight in the garden with her wide hat and long gloves protecting her prized porcelain skin. She had possessed a passion for gardening her entire life and was putting it to good use by growing anything edible.

Her geraniums were neglected, no longer at their prize winning lush richness. "Food is more important now," she declared, overlooking their poor appearance. "The geraniums will need to wait until Germany has recovered."

Fraulein Rosen did her best to cover the domestic responsibilities. Before my return, a few displaced young women from the Soviet sector had been hired. They had been willing to work for just room and board, desperate to have a roof over their heads and for any food in their stomachs. My family had wanted to provide them assistance, more than actually requiring any work from them.

None had lasted long. They had been more interesting in stealing valuables to sell on the black market. When not stealing, they were trying to catch a husband from the few German men who had managed to survive the war. Fraulein Rosen had dismissed all of them in disgust.

"I would rather do all the work myself then to rely on such empty headed girls," she explained. "It was too much of an effort to constantly supervise them. They didn't even know how to make a bed properly," she sniffed with a shake of her head.

Liesl assisted my mother in the garden, or she helped Fraulein Rosen with the housework. Neither would have been something she would have done willingly before the war. Now, she performed her tasks with diligence and determination. Things had indeed changed for all of us. I caught her forcing back her tears on more than one occasion.

"My Cambridge degree has turned out to be useless," she declared. She brightened when a thought struck her. "I speak several languages. I could work for the Americans doing translation work. Or, perhaps, as a nanny or a teacher."

My voice was cool and firm. "No, you will not work for the Americans, not as hired help and certainly not as a common laborer." If we became desperate for hard currency, I would swallow my pride and work for them, but the women would not do so. At least, not while I was alive.

Liesl's brows knit for a moment. "You'd better watch it, Hans. You're starting to sound just like Papa."

Her observation gave me pause. Perhaps I did at that.

Things had indeed changed for all of us.

It had not taken me long to observe something rather puzzling, as it happened every day. Kohl would leave after breakfast, pulling a cart. A few hours later, he would return with the cart laden with wood. Then he would disappear into the stable.

After a few days, my curiosity overcame me. I asked him what he was doing.

"The weather is nice right now, Young Dietrich, but winter will soon be here. After the last war, there was little fuel to be found, be it coal or wood. People froze to death. When the snows arrives this winter, it will be difficult to find wood or to chop trees. The coal your father has hoarded will not last forever. So, I collect wood every day no matter the weather. I've been doing so for several months now, since the final melt off."

With more than a little pride, he showed me the wood he had gathered. Three locked stalls were filled to the rafters, with a fourth in process.

I whistled. "Impressive. You collected this all on your own, in just a few months?"

He looked away, embarrassed. "Some days are more productive than others. Much more will be needed if we are to survive. Others will soon recognize the same need and will begin foraging for fuel. Eventually, they will begin chopping down the trees and brush, use their furniture if there's any of it left, or anything else that will burn. We can only pray it will not be a harsh winter."

I joined him the next day, pulling another cart. Larger pieces were hauled back to be split with the tools Kohl kept well honed. After a fierce wind storm, we gathered for the full day, not wanting to waste such an opportunity. Our efforts paid off as the stable began to fill faster.

I had been home a week. There was one task I could postpone no longer.

My visit to the bakery was in the late afternoon when I knew there would be few, if any customers, due to sell out of the precious commodity. I waited a moment before entering, gathering my strength for the difficult task.

The bakery was warm and inviting, and the scent of fresh bread hung in the air. Max Kluge immediately came around the counter to greet me.

"Hans! How long have you been home?" A large man, he engulfed me in a strong embrace, dusting me with flour in the process.

"Not long, Herr Kluge."

"God, it's good to see you. We prayed for you when we heard you had been wounded and captured by the Americans." His eyes traveled my frame and he frowned. "Speaking of the Americans, didn't they feed you? Here, have this while we catch-up." He handed me a roll from behind the counter."

I had not received my ration coupons and began to protest, but he insisted. "I'm 'sold-out' of today's bread offering, so the officials won't know. I keep extra for visitors, or, for when someone is in need."

He indicated a chair and as I sat, he pulled one up beside me.

"You are doing well then, Herr Kluge? And your wife?" I asked, allowing pleasantries to delay the unpleasantness of the reason for my visit.

"Yes. Although, we are being run ragged. The Americans guarantee our supplies, and we've been working extra hours for months to help meet demand. There's only the two of us still, you know." He gave a sigh. "At least it means we can still provide bread."

We were all beholden to our American occupiers in some way. Whether we liked it, or not.

"It will be better once the bakery has some additional workers. There are few young men around anymore and the ones who are here, don't want to work in a common bakery. As for our sons, we don't know when Dieter will be released from the POW camp in the United States. And Rolf, we have not heard anything from him since March . . ." His voice trailed off.

He did not know of Rolf's death. For a moment, I was shocked.

Herr Kluge and his wife must have suspected Rolf had been killed. But, obviously, they had never received an official notification. Really, it should not have been surprising. The Third Reich had hemorrhaged a massive flow of casualties during its final death throes. Record keeping and notifications had ceased in those final chaotic months. Countless families would never receive the closure they had dreaded, but which they desperately needed. Hope was a stubborn creature, after all. How many years would it remain? One? Five? Ten years before withering away? Or, was it possible that mothers would reach their own deathbed while still praying for their son's return?

I was now the one placed in the unenviable position of providing the Kluges confirmation. I had come here to share with them Rolf's final moments. But, I had not expected to be the first one to share with them the news of his death.

"That is the reason why I am here," I said, meeting his eyes.

His face brightened, hope overcoming him regarding his youngest son. Just as fast, his face froze when he realized I was not bringing him the good news he was seeking.

Herr Kluge's lips moved as he tried to find and form the words. His efforts were in vain. Only silent tears escaped him.

I, too, was silent as I had no other words. During the war, I had authored scores of letters to the families of the fallen. All had been difficult to write, and the one I had written to Liesl to inform her of Ellery's death had been the hardest of them all. But, never had I delivered the horrific news personally. To experience the moment of Herr Kluge's grief was wrenching.

I placed my hand on his shoulder to provide him some comfort. There was little else to offer, and nothing else would have been enough.

Frau Kluge appeared at that moment from the back, drying her hands on her apron. Her face brightened when she saw me. "I thought I heard someone else in the shop! Hans, it's about time you came around to see us. You've been home for more than a few days. What took you so long? Let me give you a hug to welcome you home."

Herr Kluge looked up.

His wife stopped cold. She understood the despair on his face and began shaking her head.

"No . . . Please no . . ."

She looked to me, begging to hear something different. When I did not deny Rolf's demise, she began sobbing, her face buried in her apron. I stood, my arm around her shoulders as I guided her to my chair.

"I begged him, begged him, not to join the SS, but he would not listen," she stammered between sobs. "He was caught up in their propaganda, all their lies and hate. And now, he's gone. He was only fourteen! It's not supposed to be this way. Boys should not be sent off to war."

Everything she said was true. War was brutal enough for men, let alone boys.

Frau Kluge grabbed my arm in desperation.

"How did you know? You were there, with him at the end, weren't you?"

"Yes." I looked past them remembering the long day. "We spoke the day before our units went into combat. Afterwards, when the hostilities had ceased, I found him on the battlefield." I swallowed hard, it was difficult to continue. "I was with him for his final moments," I confirmed, closing my eyes at the memory of the young boy lying on the ground, his large blue eyes staring sightlessly up to the heavens.

"Where?"

"A few kilometers east of Neundorf. He is buried there, the grave marked."

Frau Kluge looked up with her red and swollen eyes.

"Did he suffer any?"

"No," I lied, to provide her some comfort. I took her hands in mine. "His final thoughts were of you. He called for you and wished for you to be at his side."

The intensity of her sobs increased.

"It was due to Rolf I survived the war," I continued.

"How?" she asked, momentarily choking back her emotion.

"My rifle was made useless in the conflict." Left unsaid was the unnecessary detail of how my rifle had broken when being used in hand-to-hand combat against the Americans. "I replaced it with Rolf's rifle and carried it into combat until the war ended. It served me well and was with me when I fell a month later."

She reached out to touch me, bringing her son closer in the simple gesture.

"I will take my leave to give you privacy." I bowed slightly to them and let myself out.

My return walk home was long, my thoughts with the Kluges. And selfishly, on my own losses. But then, if I could feel such grief over the loss of a child I had never even know, then I could only imagine the depth of the loss the Kluge's were experiencing. How I hoped against hope and reason that one day, I would find both Agathe and our child alive!

It was natural for them to have clung unto hope for Rolf when they previously had received good news of Dieter's deliverance. But for the grace of God, they could have lost both sons in the war.

The survival of their oldest son was little comfort for the loss of their youngest boy.


	11. Chapter 10

I requested my father to confirm Agathe's death.

I had not planned on asking for his assistance, but the opportunity arose and I seized it.

We were having a drink together when the war came up in conversation. It was an unusual topic. My father rarely talked about the war itself, even less rarely, its aftermath. He believed it was over and discussing it (which Liesl would have gladly done to no end) served no purpose. Now was the time for Germany to look forward, he would state, and not look into the past except to learn from it.

"So many fine, old German families are no longer with us. The Helms, Adorfs, Krugers, von Steins." His voice trailed off.

"Are you referencing Fritz and Hannah, the von Steins of Hamburg?" I had only met Agathe's parents a few times before the war, but had looked forward to having them as my in-laws.

"Yes, they were lost in one of the massive fire bombings." Every loss was tragic, but this one was so personal to me.

An inner turmoil of hope mixed with doubt and reality rose within me. My desperate need for closure increased my own doubts of Agathe's and the baby's demise. I cursed myself for being foolish, allowing hope and loneliness to temper reality.

But still, I once again shoved aside this truth, wanting, no _needing_, confirmation.

I took a breath and asked casually, "And their daughter, Agathe?"

"She was a nurse, was she not? Supporting the Wehrmacht?"

"Yes, but she had returned to Hamburg in early 1944."

My answer was too quick, tipping my hand and revealing too much. My father caught the slip, his eyes searching my face. He sensed there was more than I was telling him. "Oh? How were you aware of her reassignment?"

I shrugged, again avoiding his eyes. "One hears things."

He thought for a moment. "I'm unsure. I was unaware she was in Hamburg."

We continued drinking while I gathered my courage. "Would it be possible for you to inquiry of her well-being from your Hamburg contacts?" I asked, attempting not to show my eagerness.

He was not fooled a second time, either.

My father looked at me, easily reading me as he had always done. He allowed me a moment to confide in him. When I did not, he respected my privacy. "If you would like me to do so. Allow me some time to approach my contacts."

"Thank you, Sir. Your efforts are appreciated."

There was no need to ask my father the status of his inquiries. When he agreed to a request, he would follow through on it until he was unable to do so. He would notify the requestor once the task had been completed, no matter the length of time it took.

My spirits brightened with hope pushing aside unpleasant realities. If anyone could discover anything about Agathe surviving, it was my father. I discounted what her neighbor, Frau Haber, had informed me in December about Agathe perishing. Haber had arrived hours after the bombing raid and had not actually witnessed her body being recovered.

Yes, I continued to tell myself, there could be a strong possibility the neighbor had been mistaken and Agathe and our child had somehow survived.

Almost a month passed. I was in the main house, playing my mother's piano. It was the piano on which she had taught me and I had always preferred the feel of it to others. My musical side had resurfaced after being shoved aside for over a year. Several times, I had played a four handed piece with my mother, each of us pushing the other for improvement, filling the house with music.

I developed a routine of practicing for at least an hour a day, more if there was time. My skill still existed, but it needed to be re-polished from lack of practice. The more difficult the piece, the more it challenged me. Today, I was working my hands through a difficult piece by Rachmaninoff, forcing them to respond as they had done previously.

God, it felt good to be playing again. I enjoyed the work, the ability to generate beautiful music from my intense efforts. So much empty time would not be allowed to lapse in the future.

My concentration was broken when my father stepped into the room.

I halted my playing and stood. "Sir," I said, rubbing and relaxing my hands. They had been pushed relentlessly during this session.

"Hans, may I speak with you for a moment in the library?"

"Of course." He waited while I brought down the fall board before leaving.

My father was normally a formal person, but he seemed even more so now. I followed him into the library and was surprised to see my mother already waiting there, her face tight.

He closed the doors behind us.

"Please have a seat."

I sat on the sofa's edge, my unease rising. When he sat down beside me, I knew whatever he wanted to discuss was serious. Without comment, he handed me an opened telegram and indicated for me to read it.

It was addressed to my father from the Red Cross.

It took me only a few seconds to read the two lines. I crumpled the flimsy paper as my eyes began to tear up. The simple message confirmed the reality I had avoided for months.

It was true: Agathe had been killed in the bombing raid, her death recorded by local officials.

Due to the high number of casualties and the threat of disease, she had been buried with others in an unknown mass grave.

The false brightness of the last month evaporated.

My mother came to me, kneeling at my feet and taking my hands in hers.

"Hans, we are so sorry for your loss. Why didn't you mention you had become friends with the young woman? She would have been welcome to come here, to escape from the danger in Hamburg."

My mother did not yet comprehend the seriousness of my relationship with Agathe. "Mother, we were more than 'friends'. We had become engaged," I explained.

My mother exchanged a look with my father over her shoulder before she continued. "When did this happen? Was your engagement announcement in one of your undelivered letters?"

Ah! My mother still so formal and proper, from a bygone age which had ceased to exist even before the First World War had begun. She still believed formal engagement announcements should be sent, though a world war was raging.

"We had no idea you were friends with her, let alone had become so serious. Agathe was from a fine, established family. We would have gladly given you our blessings for the marriage," my mother said.

"We informed no one, not her parents or our friends. It was a personal part of our lives we decided to keep private."

I began to cry. It was one of the few times in my adult life I could remember crying, and certainly I had never done so in front of my parents. My parents allowed me my grief, not interrupting it with further questions.

I reined in my emotions and found my voice to ask the remaining unanswered question.

"Did you also receive news of her baby?"

"A baby?" my father asked, not understanding the connection. "You did not ask me about a child. I was unaware she had a child from a previous marriage."

My admission was difficult. "Sir, I was the father of the child. Our child would have been a few weeks old at the time of the air raid."

My mother gave a soft gasp and put her hand up to her mouth. She sat back on her heels.

"Oh, Hans."

It took a few seconds for her to regather her staunch Prussian demeanor. "But when could you have been together with her, to . . .?" She stopped, unable to say the obvious. My mother blushed scarlet at the thought of me having sex and fathering a child out of wedlock.

"Agathe and I have been seeing each other, since shortly after Jufra, when she was my nurse. The last time I saw her was in Italy, where we spent a five day furlough together. I had been recovering in her hospital after Africa fell. She did not inform me of the pregnancy until shortly before the baby was due."

"Hans, we would have welcomed her as your wife and the child no matter what the circumstances."

There was an uneasy silence. Within the space of a few minutes, they had lost a daughter-in-law and a grandchild. As for myself, I had now lived through my losses a second time. It had been foolish to become hopeful, to not accept the reality discovered in Hamburg, almost a year ago.

I wanted to discuss it with my parents no further. I stood and gave them slight nods. "If you will excuse me."

As I turned to leave, my mother rose from the carpet and began to follow me. My father placed a hand on her arm, preventing her from following me.

"No, Alexandra. Allow him his grief in private."

Leaving through a side door, I entered the gardens looking for Schnass. I suddenly had a deep desire to speak with him, to share our mutual losses. I now understood how Schnass had felt when he had lost his wife and infant daughter.

He was sitting in the gazebo, enjoying the afternoon breeze as it passed through the structure. His eyes lit up when he saw me. He gave me a slight smile, his equivalent of a demonstrative person throwing their arms around someone in a boisterous greeting.

"Stay with me for a while, Dietrich, and enjoy what remains of a beautiful afternoon."

I sat down next to him, unable to return his greeting.

"Was it you or your mother playing the piano earlier?"

"It was I, Herr Kommandant," I responded, my voice a whisper.

"Ah! Very beautiful." He paused before continuing. "I have always enjoyed hearing you play. You are as skillful as Alexandra, and she could have been a protégée if she had not placed music aside when she met your father."

We remained in silence for several minutes, his eyes closed. For a moment, I thought he had fallen asleep.

"It is never easy to lose a loved one," he commented, his eyes still closed. "What I would have given for you to never experience such a tragedy."

"You are aware of my loss?"

His eyes opened, and he turned with difficulty to face me. "Yes, I was with you parents when your father received the telegram. When Erich explained you had requested him to find the young lady, it was not difficult for me to understand the relevance and I excused myself. Forgive me for intruding on a private family matter. It was unintentional."

"You are as much a member of this family as me or Liesl."

"You are kind to an old man, Dietrich." He attempted to reach for a glass of water, before falling back against the cushions. I handed the glass to him, and steadied his shaking hand as he drank from it.

"Damn my body to fail me at this time!" he cursed himself. "There's still too much to see and do in this lifetime." He settled against the cushions, not speaking for several moments.

"I remember, Dietrich, learning of my wife's and daughter's demise. I take comfort in the knowledge that one day, soon, I will be reunited with them."

His face softened, his mind wrapping himself in the memories of his wife and daughter. His next question surprised me.

"Did you already suspect her demise when you requested your father to locate her?"

"Yes. I had traveled to Hamburg in December searching for them, but was unsuccessful."

"'Them'? Was she with your child?" he asked intuitively.

"Yes," I admitted, looking downward.

"An even more difficult loss," he said without judging me on my marital status. "Children should be the ones to outlive their parents, not the reverse. What made you suspect their death?"

"Her neighbor said there had been a bombing raid and Agathe's apartment was hit. Nothing was left but rubble, the bodies already removed when she arrived at the scene. The neighbor knew little else and suggested checking at the local constable's headquarters. Soon after, there was another air raid and the neighbor's house was destroyed along with the constable's office. Due to the chaos, I could find no other information."

A familiar look appeared on his face. He was analyzing my situation as he would a particularly knotty military quagmire. "You are certain the neighbor was killed in the second air raid?"

His question caught me off guard. The possibility had not occurred to me. But still, Schnass did not ask questions without a reason and he expected an answer.

"I had taken shelter in an abandoned basement when the sirens went off. When I emerged, her house and the nearby air raid shelter had taken direct hits. I asked the rescuers if the neighbor had survived, but no one knew anything about her." I paused a moment before continuing. "It was then my denial began."

He looked past me, as if looking into the past. "I didn't believe the initial telegram, either," he said in a faraway voice. "As humans, we need to see a body as proof. I thought it a trick of my wife's parents to finally keep us apart. I so hoped it was a despicable trick! At least then they would still be alive.

"Desperate to believe the fantasy, I acted the same as you: I asked for your father to confirm the news. When he did so, I knew they were truly lost. I attempted suicide, but your father wrestled the gun from me." He was quite for several moments. "I still grieve over their loss."

I allowed him a quiet moment of respect. "How did you deal with losing them?"

He answered without hesitation. "If you are seeking advice from me, Dietrich, I can offer you little comfort or guidance. At one time, I would have instructed you to dedicate yourself to work as I did, to provide you with a useful distraction. But, the temporary distraction became my life. There was nothing else. I first gave my life over to active military service and then to the academy. There was no other life until I was felled by my stroke and was forced to retire.

"It was the incorrect way to deal with my grief. Don't make the same mistake I did, Hans." Schnass calling me by my given name was a surprise. He had never done so, not even when I was a child. "It makes for a very lonely and bitter life. Find another woman of Agathe's equal and dedicate your love to her. As much as I loved my wife, looking back, I wish I had remarried."

"Do you believe if you had done so, you would have been disloyal?"

"On the contrary, Mathilde would have been honored I wanted to recapture the joy of the marriage we had shared together." He was silent for a moment, looking across space into the past. "But, I would not allow myself to do so. I wasted her memory and an equally good, but different, life with another woman. Only you can decide though, Dietrich, what will be best for you."

It was now my turn to look out into nothing. "I have lost three important things: The woman I loved, our child and my career. Everything I had pledged my future to are now gone."

He was quiet for several minutes. "I have been fortunate to enjoy the last three years when your family was kind enough to take me in. Despite the war and my infirmity, it is the first time I have lived in decades.

"The Lord blessed me to see you return from the war. I pray he blesses me again to live long enough to witness your return to a new German army commanded by sane leadership. I invested much time and effort to develop your skills. You expanded and built your skills under the orders of the National Socialists. Your excellent experience will be put to good use when a new German Heer rises again. You will be among its founders and leaders. The Allies will not want them to be wasted."

Schnass was mistaken. "Herr Kommandant, the Americans and the British, let alone the French and Soviets, will not allow a German Wehrmacht to exist again. Strong talk exists about Germany being reduced to little more than a sustenance farming state."

He snorted. "Hardly. The Americans, British and French will soon part from the Soviets, and it will not amicable. One can already see the cracks appearing. Experienced German officers, especially of your caliber, will become invaluable for the West to secure and restrain the Soviets. Mark my words, Dietrich, on my prediction. I have not been wrong yet."

I said nothing. Fifteen years of my life have been wasted on a profession which was no longer viable to me. I was not in the mood to entertain further fantasy about my future.

Wisely, Schnass let the subject drop. "Enough of such talk. Would you be kind enough to help me indoors, Dietrich? I'm fatigued from so much talking and confiding in memories from long ago."

He took my arm and with his shuffling steps, we made our way to his room on the ground floor. I made him comfortable on the bed, before opening the windows and partially drawing the curtains. When I was leaving, he called out to me.

"Remember the counsel of an old man, Dietrich. Do not follow in my footsteps."

I closed the door and returned to the piano, sitting down on the bench. I attempted to resume my practice, but after a few tentative notes, I stopped. It was useless. I was unable to focus and kept hitting the wrong keys like a beginning student.

A surge of anger welled through me. I banged my fists against the keyboard in fury before slamming the piano closed.

I went up the stairs in a rage, taking the risers two at a time. Reaching the haven of my room, I slammed the door closed and locked it. The windows were banged shut and the drapes drawn, throwing the room into darkness. On the sideboard was a crystal decanter with brandy.

I had no heroin. Liquor would need to suffice.

I splashed brandy into a glass until it was almost overflowing and shot it back. It was soon followed by a second. I poured a third and brought the decanter and glass over to the bed.

I laid on the bed, staring up at the empty ceiling. It would be impossible for me to heed Schnass' advice and find a different spouse. The desire for women had left me.

Instead, I would put myself into the embrace of drunkenness over the next several days.


	12. Chapter 11

I had clung onto my futile hope they would have been spared. However, not to be ignored any longer, reality had finally descended upon me with all its cruelty.

This loss was the tipping point, the final culmination of all my losses experienced during the six years of war: The countless soldiers I had ordered to their deaths, the Allied men I had continued killing up to my final hour, Rommel's forced suicide by the Nazis, the two times I had witnessed Ellery's death, my innocence forever lost after being tortured and assaulted by Guest, the burning of my colors, and finally, losing the war along with my self-respect and pride.

I felt distant, removed from my loved ones. I desperately wanted peace, but the mental turmoil of my depression usurped any possibility of inner tranquility. I recalled Braddock asking me if I had ever suffered from depression. The question was laughable. Depression was the only state I now experienced.

It was extreme and overwhelming. My previous episodes paled in comparison. The despondency was exasperated by my heavy drinking which I attempted to keep secret in the privacy of my room. However, my lengthy absences and the pungent scent of alcohol surrounding me soon made my drinking obvious.

I used alcohol along with sleep, to escape the pain of living. There were several days where I slept for eighteen to twenty hours. Uninterrupted by dreams, grateful for the respite I found in the empty blackness.

I did not leave the estate for over a month. I once overheard my parents discussing my isolation. My mother was concerned I was becoming a recluse. My father told her to allow me time to accept what had happened and to determine where I currently was in life. I would leave when the time right and I felt the need.

The few times I ventured out, I was faced with the grim reality of how death was alive and well, as so many others languished and failed. Malnutrition was high and diseases were running rampant. People were dying from the lack of the most basic medical care.

Simple medicines taken for granted before were non-existent. To compound the issue, there were few doctors available. Many German doctors had been drafted and killed in the war. Those ones captured by the Soviets and not ruthlessly executed, had been transported east along with other German soldiers, disappearing into the vast wasteland of the Soviet Union.

While faring somewhat better, German military doctors captured by the Americans or British were still being held in POW camps. They were doing their best to treat surviving German soldiers who were now succumbing to disease instead of munitions. Civilian doctors who had previously retired were returned into practice due to necessity. Nurses and pharmacists were pressed to provide any type of medical service they could, many beyond their training.

I grudgingly admitted the Americans did what they could to provide medical care, but they also had too few doctors in the vicinity and their priority was treating Allied soldiers.

Gynecological and pediatric care were almost non-existence. Pregnant women had it especially difficult. Women and children were forced to rely on midwives or older women for minimal maternal care. Giving birth had nearly become as much of a harrowing and dangerous experience as it had been a hundred or more years before.

It was also an experience a growing number of woman were choosing not to have.

Abortion was becoming an increasingly popular solution to what must have seemed an impossible plight. Some women attempted to end their pregnancies themselves. If they had any means at all, they had the procedure performed by others. Regardless, most of the abortions were crudely executed. Afterward, infections were common. Some took the life of the mother shortly after she had ended the life of her child. Other women were likely left sterile. Some might say either end result was a fitting punishment for what was still considered a crime.

However, I knew there was far more to it.

As a man, I was not to know of such things. Though, thanks to my sister, I was not allowed the bliss of ignorance. Liesl, in her loud voice would "whisper" some desperate tale to her friends. It would have been impossible for me not to overhear. Just as it would have been impossible for me not to note the increasing frequency with which these stories were shared.

No matter how many times I heard of it, still it shocked me to the core. As a Catholic, as a soldier who had killed countless men in battle, as a father who had experienced the grief of losing his own child.

It was incredibly difficult for me to fathom how a woman, no matter how desperate her circumstances, could desire to kill her unborn child.

Conversely, their reasons were not completely incomprehensible to me, either.

Most who found themselves in the situation were young widows, with few means to support themselves, let alone an infant. To compound the problem, a small child only made it more difficult for a woman to find work. Then, there was also the chilling reality that many of these children were seen as little more than unwanted reminders of the horrors of the war. While at least some of these children had been conceived through love, fathered by German soldiers during their last leaves home before being killed, many were the result of brutal rapes by Soviet soldiers.

Women far along in their pregnancies had no choice but to carry the child to term. There was a surge of abandoned infants in Coburg and the surrounding areas. The lucky ones were left on church steps, others still were left on doorsteps of homes. The truly unfortunate ones were left wrapped in thin paper, the cord still attached, to be found in alleys, frozen from the cold. Their lives over after just a few brief hours on this cruel earth.

The Nazis had loosened the morality of Germany. Their war and its aftermath had eroded it even further. The fraternization rules were beginning to relax, and more and more German women were seen with Americans. It was only a matter of time before there were German children fathered by American soldiers. While the future for all of us remained unpredictable, I could only hope and pray the products of these relationships enjoyed a better fate.

As troubling as it was for some, the potential for unplanned pregnancy was not a concern of mine. I myself had little interest in women. After proposing to Agathe, I had remained celibate. My deep want and need for sex, emotionally and physically, had been restrained due to my deep desire to remain faithful to her. Had over two years actually passed since I had been with a woman?

Now my sexual desire and tension, which had at times been overwhelming, had vanished.

Previously, I would be physically tense and frustrated if only a few days had passed without sex. Celibacy had been a difficult reality in wartime. I had forced myself to accept it when stationed in combat zones for weeks.

Then, there had been no women. Hence, the irony of my current situation. There were unlimited numbers of German women available to perform sex, some for the mere price of bread. Many were widows with no other source of money needed for survival. Though, German men ranked low in their preferences. They preferred American men, with their ready money and, more importantly, their seemingly unlimited access to food.

Now, on the rare occasion I possessed some semblance of a sex drive, I would masturbate. It relieved my sexual tension and provided some mental and physical calmness. Over time, I began experiencing wet dreams. I was embarrassed by my body reacting similarly to that of an adolescent boy who had no other forms of release. I would be vaguely aware of pleasure before waking up, tangled in the mussed sticky sheets. I would strip the bed and launder the linen myself, not wanting Fraulein Rosen to know. This, too, made me feel like an adolescent boy, hiding a shameful secret which he did not understand.

When my first soldier arrived at the estate, my father's tolerance for my lifestyle and self-imposed exile ended.

He entered my room mid-day without knocking. He threw open the curtains, the sunlight blinding. I brought the blankets up over my head to avoid the light and to return to sleeping. In response, he ripped the blankets from the bed, once again exposing me to the harsh autumn sun.

He went to the window and turned his back while I pulled up the sheet to cover me.

"You have experienced two losses which no man should ever experience. Your devastation must be overwhelming. While I have shared your experience of losing a child, I have been fortunate to be spared losing my spouse.

"I agonized over losing you, a second son, during the war. At times, knowing you were alive but estranged from me during the final sixteen months was crueler than if you had perished."

Then, my father turned to face me.

"Your wounds should have condemned you to an immediate death on the battlefield. The Almighty spared your life for a purpose. To throw away the life graciously returned to you is nothing short of ungrateful and selfish. It is time for you to resume living and give back to others to humbly express your appreciation for the second chance you have been granted.

"You will again become a member of this family. You will appear for meals and for evening prayers, clean and sober and limit your sleeping to normal hours. Your contribution, as with everyone else's residing here, is critical for all of us to survive this difficult period of uncertainty. There is more than enough work here on the estate to keep you occupied and to distract you from your losses.

"You have fifteen minutes to shower, shave, dress and arrive downstairs. Waiting in the drawing room is an enlisted man who reported to you. You will present yourself as the German officer he knew and respected. You will be as I expect you to be, as a Dietrich and as my son.

"If you should disappoint him or me, I will have no qualms about disowning you and turning you out from the estate."

At the door, his edict still hanging in the air, he stopped and again turned to me. "You are now to gain control of your emotions as a man. Whatever turmoil you might have, it is to remain hidden while you work to resolve and accept it."

He left without waiting for my response.

A small spark rose within me at the truth of his words. I rose and followed he orders, arriving downstairs within ten minutes.

I entered the drawing room not knowing which soldier would be waiting.

Gefreiter Siegfried Riedel was sitting on the edge of the sofa, obviously uncomfortable being surrounded by such luxury. His uniform was threadbare and patched in a few places, but it was clean. An accomplishment which I was sure was no small feat.

Riedel had been the excellent marksman and my unit's sniper in the final months of the war. He had picked off the advancing Allied soldiers with ease, providing cover when we had descended into commando operations.

I had trusted him to be at my back when meeting with the Americans unarmed to surrender Gefreiter Garin Frege for emergency medical care. Riedel had been with me until the end, until we had been cut off and the Americans had flanked us.

He rose slowly, a look of stunned surprise on his face. He managed to take a few steps towards me before halting, staring in disbelief.

"I . . . I . . . don't believe it!" Riedel stammered. "You really _are_ alive, Herr Major."

His surprise gave way as his military decorum took over and he smartly came to attention. I waved him off and instead offered him my hand.

"Our military days are in the past for the both of us. We are now former soldiers enjoying a reunion. And, the joy of surviving."

My informal gesture caught him off guard, but he managed to grasp my hand and pump it up and down several times with enthusiasm.

"It is good to see a familiar face from our unit." I went to the sideboard. "May I offer you a brandy?"

"Thank you, Sir. A brandy is needed after such a shock."

I poured us each one before settling into a chair. Riedel returned to his perch on the edge of the sofa, this time leaning forward in eagerness.

"I did not believe your father, Herr Generalleutnant Dietrich, when he told me that you were alive, Herr Major, err, I mean, Herr Dietrich. By falling back to provide cover, you distracted the Americans long enough for us to retreat into the forest. All of us would have fallen if not for you. Your bravery would have been recognized if the war had not ended. Such a sacrifice for enlisted men! I have never heard of, let alone witnessed, such an act by an officer during my years of service."

"Any of you would have done the same if the positions had been reversed," I countered, uncomfortable with his recognition.

He ignored my suggestion. "Hardly. I fell back to see if you were behind us when I witnessed you being hit, not once, but three times. It is nothing short of a miracle for you to survive such horrific wounds."

I thought of Perkins and Lyon who had provided comfort to me in my final moments of agony. "I was fortunate to have had an excellent American surgeon operate on me. Interestingly enough, he was also the one who operated on Frege to save his life."

A look of remembrance came across his face. "I remember covering you when you approached the American field hospital for help. Frege was a good soldier, I'm glad he made it." He paused before returning to our final encounter as a unit. "Leutnant Hahn returned for you and was also cut down while carrying you." He paused before continuing, unsure how to word his question. "Leutnant Hahn . . . Did he . . . Do you know if . . .?"

"Yes, Hahn also survived. We saw each other frequently in the field hospital where we both were recovering."

He gave a sigh of relief. "I don't see how either one of you could have survived such serious wounds. Is the Leutnant also here?"

"No, he is not." I frowned. "I am unsure of his location since he was released before me. My own release was delayed for several weeks due to being interrogated."

"Ah! So you were 'de-Nazified'? We were spared since we were only enlisted men. I guess the Amis assumed we didn't have much to offer, as they assumed we were only following orders." Riedel shrugged.

"There was not much to it," I replied, shrugging as well, making light of my intense interrogation by Braddock. "The Americans knew I had been assigned to Rommel for the majority of the war. They were more interested in learning the details of Rommel's strategies and analysis than they were in purging me of so-called Nazi thoughts. There was little for them to gain. Rommel's success speaks for itself and I had never been a Nazi."

I changed the subject. "Enough of me. What became of you and the other men from our unit? I only knew you were captured by the Americans."

"We made it to the trees, but soon became surrounded. The Amis were so strong and they were moving so fast. We were down to our final rounds when they called out for us to surrender. All of us knew it was the end. Despite Hitler's orders, there was nothing to be gained by fighting to the death."

"Febel Schmidt informed us he would offer our surrender. Any man who wanted to continue fighting was free to leave with no consequences." A slow grin crossed Riedel's face. "It would have been so easy to find high ground and to pick them off one by one before being killed myself, but I chose to surrender. The sniper rifle was destroyed before I did so. I did not want the Americans to obtain it and to use it against other Germans."

I returned his grin. "You would have been successful at your task if you had chosen to do so. But, you took the right action. The war was nearly over. It had been, for quite some time."

"Afterwards, we were taken to an area the Amis were using as a POW camp. It was little more than a field with wire around the perimeter to contain us. We had no shelter or sanitation facilities, food and medical care were scarce. Soldiers began dying due to the poor care. It was very sad. They had come so far, and to die at the end of it." He looked down at his hands, which he was clasping and unclasping. "I never saw the Red Cross inspect it. Perhaps they were not allowed in because the Amis knew the camp would never pass inspection."

He finally was able to look up at me, tears in his eyes.

"It was a degrading experience, both as a soldier and as a man. Many thought we were being treated worse than animals as a punishment for all Hitler had done. A part of me believed it was true, but really, I knew it was because the Allies were overwhelmed. So many Germans had surrendered in such a short time. The logistics must have been very difficult for the Amis. It would have been difficult for any army to provide adequate facilities, given the circumstances."

I acknowledged the truth of what he said and then we sat in quiet for several minutes. But, Riedel's anguish was obvious. My experience paled when compared to his, and I had had no right to complain.

"All of you were honorable soldiers," I told him. "It was an experience none of you should have had to live through."

"At least we were alive and together," he rationalized with a half-smile, wiping away the tears with his sleeve.

"And the other men from our unit? Their condition?" I held my breath, waiting for his response.

He brightened. "Everyone survived and has been freed." I released my breath, thanking God for their deliverance. "We always thought it lucky to be under your command. Your men had a much higher survival rate than those assigned to some of the other officers."

I almost laughed. If only he had seen my failure rate in North Africa against the Rat Patrol. Reidel would have begged for a transfer to a different unit.

Riedel interrupted my thoughts. "We were concerned about you and the Leutnant. We asked about the two of you, but the Americans did not know." He looked away before continuing. "They said, 'What do you expect from officers? They ran off and left you grunts behind to cover for them.' We had to wrestle Febel Schmidt to the ground to prevent him from attacking them over the insult. Over the months, we asked other Americans, but no one had any information.

"When the war came to an end, I don't think they knew what to do with us. There were so many captured German soldiers, so little space. Given that we were enlisted men, they simply told us to go home after a few months." He stared into the past, remembering. "They probably believed it was easier than having to guard and feed us."

His was quiet for a few moments before his eyes found mine and he continued.

"I vowed once I was released, I would pay my respects to your father and tell him of your bravery. I was shocked when he informed me not only had you survived, but that you had arrived home."

He leaned forward in eagerness. "I told him what you had done for us. Herr Generalleutnant was very proud of the bravery you had shown to your men."

My face flushed.

"No one had informed him. He said he was honored for you to be his son and also you had brought honor to the house of Dietrich."

The praise made me uncomfortable. It explained why my father was so angry with me when he had woken me. I had dishonored my men by my actions the last month. I hid my embarrassment, and my shame, by refreshing our brandies.

"Where is home for you, Riedel?"

"Stuttgart."

"Coburg is a bit out of your way, don't you believe?"

He looked away, his turn to be embarrassed. "I went there first. There is nothing left of my home or family in Stuttgart so I came here to pay my respects to your father, to acknowledge a final act of honor and bravery," he responded with a quiet voice. "I thought he should know."

One again, I thanked God for my good fortune. "I am truly sorry, Riedel, for your loss."

"Nothing can be done about it. I would have arrived here sooner, but it was necessary for me to walk most of the way. There were few trains or transport vehicles available. I worked when possible to earn food, other times I foraged."

By "foraged", we both understood without saying he meant stealing.

"What are your plans?"

"I guess return to Stuttgart. There is nowhere else for me to go to. I will attempt to find work, but I'm not holding my breath. There isn't much call for a former Wehrmacht sniper."

It was clear Riedel's options were limited, and I had known it, even before I had asked the question. "You are welcome to stay here until you determine your plans. If you like, I can inquire about work for you in Coburg. To warn you, most of the few jobs available are for room and board only."

His eyes again brimmed up with tears. "You would do this for me, Herr Major?" His excitement caused him to slip back into my former title of address. "Words cannot begin to express my gratitude. I will accept anything. I don't care what type of work or what the pay is. Food alone would be payment enough."

"I'm not guaranteeing anything, but there is no harm in inquiring, is there?"

Riedel, still smiling, attempted to stifle a yawn.

"You must be exhausted, Riedel, from your journey. I will ask our housekeeper to prepare a room for you so you can rest before supper. I will travel to Coburg early tomorrow to inquire about a position for you."

"Thank you, again, Herr Major. It has been a long time since I have slept indoors in a real bed. It will be a special treat for me."

Riedel was shy at dinner and it took much coaxing from my father and Schnass to bring him forth. They shared their stories from the Great War. Just the humorous ones, given the presence of the women. Liesl was her normal exuberant self, out-going and friendly towards Riedel.

Though she was several years older, I found much amusement in Riedel's blushing whenever she addressed a question or comment to him.

I forced myself to leave the estate before dawn the next day. I was leaving my safety and serenity when I passed through the gates to walk the few kilometers to Coburg.

I continued on in the darkness, wanting to reach my destination before the population awoke. I had an idea of where Riedel might find work. The streets were still deserted when I arrived at the bakery. The door was locked, but the lights were on. I went around to the side entrance and knocked. Kluge opened the door, dusted with flour and wielding a cricket bat like a weapon.

"Hans!" he said surprised, putting the bat aside. "Apologies, but we need to be careful of thieves. Times are desperate and many are resorting to stealing bread. If only they would ask, I would give them at least something for their hunger."

"You were always a generous man, Herr Kluge, to those less fortunate in difficult times." Unmentioned was the fact his family had given bread to Jews, an act which could have led to their imprisonment if the authorities had discovered their actions.

"Come inside, please, and have a roll. They are hot from the oven," he gestured towards a pan.

Accepting a small one, I forced myself to eat it slowly.

"I thought it was only we bakers who were up so early. What brings you here at these baker's hours?"

"A soldier of mine is looking for work. Since it is just you and Frau Kluge, perhaps you could use some assistance until Dieter returns home?"

He rubbed his chin, thinking. "Is he an experienced baker?"

"Doubtful. He has been in the Wehrmacht for the last four years."

"Well, he can't be any worse than me when I began as an apprentice after the last war," he responded with a laugh. "Have him stop by this afternoon, after the rush. I will only be able to pay him a slight wage, but will be able to provide him three meals a day, mostly bread. There are advantages to being a lowly baker. At least one does not go hungry. He's more than welcome to sleep upstairs in Rolf's room, if he should need quarters. Depending on his size, he might be able to fit into some of Dieter's clothes."

"Thank you, Herr Kluge. Siegfried Riedel will be thankful for the good news."

Riedel was overjoyed at the news. "I will never forget your assistance, Herr Major," he exclaimed while vigorously shaking my hand. "You know I am a hard worker. I will also prove it to Herr Kluge and his wife."

Riedel was my first soldier to arrive. It did not take long for the others to follow his path.

At first, there were only a few who arrived alone. Soon, there was a steady stream of men who became a constant presence at the estate.

They had remembered my home city and sought me out for any type of assistance I could provide. Many needed only a place to sleep for the night and a meal before continuing their journey home. Others had already been home, and like Riedel, had found nothing remaining. The majority only stayed for a few days before moving on. Others who had no place to go, stayed for weeks. One, for over a month.

Some came from holding camps within Europe, others returned from prisoner of war camps in Canada and the United States. They admitted they had been treated fairly, and had received plenty of food along with work and educational opportunities. Their hosts had regarded them well, often having them dine at the same table with family members.

Several of the men who had been held in the United States had not wanted to return to Germany. They had volunteered to remain without compensation. They could hardly be blamed. Life in the United States would have been an improvement: An opportunity to begin a new life and to escape memories of National Socialism and the ugliness it had represented.

We shared what we were able with all visitors. Ration coupons were necessary to purchase the little available. Food was in very short supply. Few crops had been planted in the spring due to the shortage of men and seeds. The majority of our food came from my mother's garden and fruit trees. The vegetarian diet was occasionally supplemented by the fish and rabbits we were able to catch.

But, what the men needed most of all was a place to rest and to gather their thoughts. Or, in the case of many, a safe place to escape where they could forget the war. The war had not left them unscarred emotionally. Some woke up screaming, their nightmares engulfing them in realism. My family was frequently awoken by their cries and me running down the hall to console my soldiers. A few begged me not to leave them, and I spent countless nights dozing in a chair near their beds.

My father and Schnass understood the origin of their screams. They knew of their own men who had returned damaged from the last war. Fraulein Rosen presented a stiff upper lip and said nothing. My mother accepted the situation stoically, always the good soldier's wife. Liesl, as strong as she was, became distraught when she heard their screams, remembering Ellery's death. On a few occasions, it was difficult for even my father to console her.

"Promise me Ellery did not suffer," she would beg me, sobbing into my shoulder.

"He slipped away in my arms," I would lie each time, "peacefully and without pain. It was as if he went to sleep."

My father made eye contact with me one time over her shoulder. He instantly knew the truth being withheld from Liesl.

Without explanation, I moved into the main guest house. My men stayed with me there, their ghosts joining us in privacy. I suppose I wanted to be alone with my ghosts, too. They were the only things filling my emptiness.

It was then my own screams began.

I doubted there was a soldier alive who did not dream of the war. While it had frequently dominated my dreams, they had never been nightmares. Even the dreams featuring the Rat Patrol, although always frustrating, never elicited a terror within me.

I felt calm, and strangely safe, when dreaming of Troy. It was as if had the power to protect all of those around him, including me. Over the months, my dreams of Troy began to include the images of fires accompanied by the smell of smoke. At times the smell was so strong it would wake me and I would believe the estate was on fire. I would soon realize it was part of the dream, but did not understand why my subconscious was connecting it with Troy.

And then, there was Guest.

It was the dreams of him, not Troy, which caused me to wake up screaming.

It was as Guest predicted: I would never forget him. He would not allow me to forget.

The nightmares of him were brutal, with me being torn both physically and mentally apart.

I would wake up in a cold sweat, the nightmare so realistic I could detect Guest's cologne lingering in the air.

One time, my screams woke up one of my soldiers. He rushed into my room to comfort me.

"Herr Major! It was a dream, nothing more," he said placing his hands on my shoulders to still me. "Do you understand?"

I hesitated, unable to speak. He released my shoulders, and did not press for details. It wasn't necessary for him to inquire if my nightmare was war related. All of our nightmares were somehow connected to the war.

"Would you like me to stay for a while?" he asked, remembering the same kindness which I had once shown him.

I shook my head, finding my voice. "Thank you, but no," I croaked. It was embarrassing for a subordinate to have witnessed my weakness and to offer me his assistance.

He looked doubtful. "I am in the next room if you should need me."

I settled back down, drenched in perspiration. There would be no more sleep tonight.

I soon learned to anticipate the nightmares, by recognizing the signs of Guest's upcoming visits. An uneasy heaviness would begin settling upon me during the day. I would become restless, with my anxiety increasing as nightfall approached. There was no stopping the nightmares. There was little choice but to endure them.

I began keeping brandy on the nightstand within easy reach for comfort. Shot back in a single take, it would steady my shaking hands. The hope was also that it would calm me enough to return to sleep. Sometimes it worked. The majority of the time, it did not. After lessening, my drinking began to steadily increase again. On the few occasions I breakfasted with my family, Liesl's nose would twitch when she smelled brandy on my breath at such an early time of the day.

I was unnerved by the nightmares, but a masochist part of me felt angry and cheated. When Guest had tortured me in Alter, he had at least brought me pleasure afterwards with heroin. Now, he only brought me mental agony and gave me nothing in exchange.

Selfish bastard. He had given me more when he was alive.

Over months, I deduced stress and hunger triggered the nightmares. There was little that could be done about the hunger. For the stress, I began working myself to exhaustion. This helped curb the nightmares, although it did not entirely limit them.

I dedicated myself to working on the estate, renovating it, wanting to restore it to the way it had been before the war. By my side were my soldiers. Without fail, they volunteered to work when they stayed at the estate, wanting to work in exchange for the food they had been given. Several were uncomfortable and embarrassed to see me performing physical labor, still believing officers should not work.

I ignored their comments. "We are all equals," I would state, while continuing my labor. "I was only a Major. My father was a Generalleutnant and yet he also works beside us."

I never moved back to the main residence. Frequently, I didn't see my family except for mealtimes. Soon, more often than not, I began skipping meals. My appetite fluctuated wildly, depending on the level of my stress. It ranged from ravenous to non-existent.

I pushed myself to work long hours and slept little sleep at night. It did not take long for me to become exhausted. My face had a gaunt, haunted look to it, just as it had during the final months of the war.

When recovering in the American hospital, several of us would joke how we would be able to relax and sleep with the war over and the reality of being killed gone forever.

The actual reality of it was that it was anything but relaxing.

One day, in my exhaustion, I fell asleep at the small table in the guest house kitchen. It had been early in the afternoon and my wish had been to rest my eyes for only a moment.

When a hand was placed on my shoulder, I woke with a start.

I jumped up from the chair knocking it over, not recognizing my surroundings. I whirled to face who had dared to touch me, ready to attack my assailant.

Standing next to me was my father. He had taken a step back, out of my reach due to my violent reaction.

"Hans?" he asked.

Recognizing my surroundings, I snapped back to the present.

Embarrassed, I ran a hand through my hair. "Sir, forgive me. You startled me. I wasn't expecting anyone."

"Apparently not." Concern crossed his face. He hid the emotion quickly in the dim light. I flicked open my lighter and lit the candle on the table. I had become used to the almost constant power interruptions. The electricity was off more than it was on, and it wasn't worth the effort to try the light switch.

I glanced at the clock in shock. "17:30! I've slept half the day away. There is too much work unfinished work for me to waste it sleeping."

My father's hand returned to my shoulder, encouraging me to sit. "The work will still be there tomorrow. You're already doing the work of two men. You are pushing yourself too hard."

We sat for a few moments before my father broke the awkward silence. "I haven't been in this kitchen since I was a young boy," he said looking around. "My mother would hire a cook to work when guests would stay here on an extended visit. On more than one occasion, I remember Frau Herz slipping me linzer sweets before supper."

Despite everything, his words brought a smile to my face. It was hard for me to imagine my large, elderly father as a young boy favoring illicit sweets filled with jam.

The silence and awkwardness returned.

A sudden shame rose within me at the disrespect and contempt I had held against my father. I had postponed my repentance for far too long. I must do it now, to honor him and for me to be at peace.

"Sir," I said with great difficulty to the man who sat next to me. The apology my father was owed, the fulfillment of the promise I had given to Irene.

"Yes?"

After so many years, I spoke the words which I had been unable to speak in the past.

"I have never had the courage to face you until now. The words I said so many years ago, when you visited me at the academy to admonish me for the prank. I apologize for their cruelty, for denying your courage as a soldier, for doubting your ability as an officer to lead men, and for not realizing the difficulty you experienced ordering them to their deaths.

"Your reply was to inform me I had no idea of what I spoke. You were right and I have known that truth for several years. Even before I was faced with the same difficulties as you on the battlefield. Sir, I beg for your forgiveness for questioning your honor and bravery."

He grasped my hands in the two of his. His gentleness was surprising for a man of his size.

"Son, I forgave you years ago. I can only pray you will do the same for me."


	13. Chapter 12

The sound of an American Jeep speeding up the driveway was unmistakable. Kohl and I were unloading wood when we heard it.

"Damn cheeky Americans!" cursed Kohl as he threw down with disgust the log he was holding. "This time I've really, _really_ had it with them. I'll give them a piece of my mind, I shall! I've had about enough of their reckless driving. Just because they won the war doesn't mean they have to act like hooligans who own the place."

With that, he stormed from the barn with me following close behind.

We stepped into the late afternoon sun. A lone Jeep pulled up and came to a screeching halt, spraying gravel. The driver was not wearing a helmet and I immediately recognized him.

I put out my arm to stop Kohl. "The American is Doctor Keaton, Kohl. He is the surgeon who operated on me. He is the man who saved my life."

Kohl was somewhat placated. "Well, okay. I'll give him a pass this time as a thank you for saving your life." He frowned, glancing me over. "What would bring him all the way out here? Are you having complications you haven't told us about?"

"No, but it can't be bad if he is unaccompanied. Wait here."

"Tell him the grounds are not the Autobahn," he called after me.

"Doctor Keaton," I greeted him and offered him my hand. "You're a long way from the field hospital, Doctor. For what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Major Dietrich! How kind of you to come out and greet me!" he said with the generous Southern formality he had always shown. He swung out of the Jeep and enthusiastically began shaking my hand, clasping it in the both of his.

"I'm returning to the States in a few weeks and I wanted to take you up on your kind offer to visit. Besides, I wanted to ensure you've had no complications. You know, you were probably the most challenging case I've had in my career. But," he paused to rub his hands together in glee, "it was my great pleasure to pull you through."

Keaton had lost none of his fire and exuberance. His eyes danced with the intense intelligence he had always radiated.

"Thank you, but it was not necessary. I have had no problems since my release, thanks to your excellent care. But, all the same, I welcome your visit."

He waved aside my concern. "It would not be right if I did not perform a final check on you before leaving." He looked around. "Your estate is as beautiful as you described, Major. Very impressive. It reminds me of my own familial estate back in Virginia."

"Thank you." I became serious. "Doctor, as an American, it is very dangerous for you to be traveling alone such a distance from the field hospital. While we're in the American occupation area, we're near the Soviet zone. They hassle American soldiers or Germans who stray beyond the border. Their actions can be unpredictable."

Keaton was unconcerned. "One cannot trust the Soviets, even less so than Yankees, if that is possible. But, I don't have anything to worry regarding them," he said as he patted a wicked looked shotgun in the seat next to him. "They won't bother me with my little girlfriend Sally riding shotgun. I doubt they would want to make her acquaintance. She's rather wicked to men who try to fuck her without kissing her first."

Instinctively, I took a step back and cursed under my breath for him carrying around such a dangerous weapon. He might be a doctor from the American south, but his actions were more consistent with a cowboy from the American west. "Yes, I would agree no one would not want to make her acquaintance. Pray tell me you don't actually have her loaded?"

He gave me a grin. "She wouldn't do much with just her good looks, now would she?"

"No, she wouldn't," I agreed. I indicated the shotgun with my chin. "I vaguely remember hearing conversation of a Sally after I was brought in from the field. Is she the Sally you referenced in the operating room?"

Keaton laughed. "The one and the same. Sally commends respect from all who meet her. She was a gift from my older brother when I volunteered for the war. He instructed me to keep her with me at all times, for close encounters. She has not left my side, and I have not had a moment's problem during the entire war. Indeed, I've never known my brother to be wrong."

He reached for his medical bag after he slid Sally under the driver's seat. "I believe it's safe to leave Sally here. Doesn't look like we'll be bothered while on your estate."

I gave a sigh of relief. If my mother or sister had seen him with Sally, they would have had an aneurism on the spot.

I looked up at the sun. "It will not be wise for you to return to the hospital this evening. You would not arrive before dark and it would be dangerous, even with Sally. Please stay for supper and I will have a room prepared for you."

"It is too kind of you, Sir. I thought you might offer your hospitality given my lateness. I packed an overnight bag and brought a few things to show my gratitude." He reached into the Jeep and brought forth a large sack and handed it to me.

The sack was heavy and without opening it, I could smell the coffee emulating from it.

"You are very generous. It was not necessary."

"My mother would beat me with a cotton stalk if I had not brought something as a guest." He became serious. "Where would you feel comfortable for me to examine my handy work?" "I reside in the far residence. We'll have privacy there. Allow me a moment to notify our housekeeper we have a guest and to present her with your gift."

Fraulein Rosen was speechless, not an easy feat. Not only had Keaton brought coffee, but also sugar, butter, tinned meat and soap. "The Doctor was most thoughtful. I will happily ready the main guest room in your residence."

"Thank you, Fraulein Rosen. If you could notify us when supper is ready? We will be in the sitting room."

Keaton glanced around the room, the epitome of professionalism. "Excellent. Plenty of natural light which I prefer." He stepped back outside the door. "If you would be so kind to remove your clothing down to your undergarments? I'll wait outside while you do so. I'll knock before entering."

Feeling like I had returned to the Wehrmacht, I did as ordered. I had just folded my clothes into a neat pile when he gave a discrete knock and entered, shutting the door behind him.

The late afternoon sunlight flooded the room, bringing with it a natural warmth. He proceeded to give me a thorough physical.

"When was the last time you saw a physician?"

"When you released me, at the field hospital. I've had no need to see one since then."

"Trouble urinating? Blood in urine?"

"No."

I winced when he slipped the cold stethoscope beneath my undershirt. "Apologies, Major. I never can quite remember to warm it up before applying it. It is the number one complaint patients have against doctors."

He listened to my heart and lungs asking me to take a few deep breathes.

"Your lungs sound cloudy. Do you or have you smoked?"

I laughed. "I haven't smoked in months. Cigarettes are almost impossible to obtain."

He continued. "Sleeping well?"

I shrugged. "At times."

He raised an eyebrow. "Nightmares? Of the war?"

I again shrugged, not wanting to confirm my reality.

"Do physical labor or exercise until exhaustion, it will help. And lay off alcohol. It interrupts the sleep pattern and intensifies dreams."

He rolled up the stethoscope and returned it to his bag. "Would you be so kind to lie on the sofa? I would like to examine the injuries I treated, Major. I will pull aside your undergarments, but expose only what's necessary to complete my examination. There is a throw here to cover yourself for modesty."

He sensed my reluctance regarding my back scarring. The other scars I cared little about.

"Major, I've already seen your scarring. I know what to expect."

"Then let's get on with it."

I laid down on the sofa and covered up with the throw. I stared up at the intricate ceiling, dreading him to look at my back.

Keaton turned to me, his face impassive. He pulled back the throw, first only exposing my shoulder wound. He gave only a cursory glance to the oblong scar, still raised in its newness. He proceeded to my upper thigh wound, pulling aside my shorts, but tucking the throw between my legs to keep me covered.

He moved unto my remaining wound, the massive scar running down my side. The firm, knowing hands went to my side, probing the tissue. It was an ugly mixture of white and pink, rippling under his fingers.

"Roll unto your left side, please, so I may examine it from the back."

I tensed, waiting for his fingers to touch the appalling welts, drawn to their ugliness. Instead, his hands remained at the wound, one in the front, the other in the back. "Any tenderness when probed?"

"None."

"The healing looks clean. Have you had any weeping, oozing of material?"

"No, nothing."

"Damn, I'm good," he murmured. He removed his hands and covered me with the throw.

"I'm finished, Major. I'll step out while you dress. When I return, I'll have a few remaining questions to ask."

I pulled on my clothes and moved to a chair. He sat across from me when he returned.

"You've healed well," he drawled. "Except for the scarring, you should have no permanent damage. There's no shrapnel; that's the nasty stuff. I was pretty confident all fragments had been removed, but sometimes it's difficult to get everything. Have you experienced any lasting impact from your injuries?"

"None."

He frowned. "The mortar wound should have killed you. I'm the best, but even I have my limits. I'll never understand how you survived it. I will feature your survival in my book on trauma and field care."

I raised my eyebrows. "You're writing a book?"

He waved his hand in boredom. "Daily medical care of old ladies with 'the vapors' and "dropsy' is rather boring after the excitement of what I've practiced during the war. I feel the knowledge and skill I've gained be given back to the medical field. There's so much more trauma medicine can do to save lives. While we've made advances, I believe it's possible to save more soldiers in the field."

I gave him a slight nod. "I would be honored for you to discuss my case in your book, if it will advance field medical care for soldiers of any nationality. I request, though, you not to use my name."

"Agreed." Keaton gave me a grin along with his word. "I'll send you an autographed copy."

I laughed. "I doubt I will be able to understand any of it."

"Probably more than you would think, especially with what you've seen." He became serious again.

"Overall, you are in good condition, although underweight. Not to a dangerous level, but I would say about twenty pounds under for a man of your height. I do realize, though, the difficulty of the food situation."

We sat in quiet for a few minutes.

Keaton cleared his throat. "I counted almost a dozen scars on you, several from wounds of which should have killed you. Care to tell me about the ones on your back?"

"Not especially."

"Someone sure did a number on you. The amount of aggression and frustration with which those wounds were inflicted are obvious. I don't think I need to tell you they healed poorly. But honestly, I doubt any doctor, including myself, would have been able to minimize the scarring."

"If it is all the same to you, Doctor, I prefer not to discuss it."

"Understood." He waited a few moments before continuing. "I've done everything I can for you physically, Major. What can I do for you psychologically?"

I wanted to laugh out loud. Everything, but I mentioned nothing.

"Your sexual health?"

His question shocked me. I had never been asked this question in my entire life by any doctor. Perhaps it was because he was an American and more forward and modern about such personal aspects than any German or Italian doctor would ever be.

"Major?" he prompted

"I have none." My voice was quiet.

"Decreased libido or unable to perform due to a war injury?"

"I have no libido. Nothing."

He face remained blank. "Is this normal for you?"

I gave a bitter laugh. "The exact opposite. I enjoyed sex immensely. If possible, I would have had it numerous times a day."

"What has changed for you?"

"My fiancée and child were killed in the war. I have had no desire for sex since her death was confirmed."

His face became solemn. "I am deeply sorry for you and your loss, Major." He shook his head. "The innocents and non-combatants suffer greatly during wartime. Would you say your lack of desire is a result of your depression?"

"Yes, I have suffered periodically from depression since before the war. It has become more severe of late."

"Have you considered visiting a professional woman, to at least have your physical needs served?"

"No. I would have the fear of being unable to perform," I admitted.

Mercifully, he dropped the subject.

"Are you working?"

"Here at my father's estate." I gave a wry smile. "There are few jobs available. Besides, there is little call for a former Wehrmacht officer," I said, echoing Riedel.

"Do you leave the grounds? Visit friends in town? Attend religious services?

"Occasionally, but generally, I avoid doing so. I leave only when necessary. I have little desire to have contact with the outside world. I have seen enough of its ugliness."

Keaton sat back in his chair. "I am concerned about your depression. It's understandable given the stress and loss you have experienced over the last several years. No doubt it's exasperated by other wartime experiences. I recommend you interact with others as much as possible and partake in activities with others outside your family. It will help lift the depression, at least in the short term.

"Your libido should return once the depression passes. Since you tell me you have suffered from depression over several years, I also recommend for you to see a psychiatrist if there is one available in Coburg or anywhere in the nearby area."

I cut him off. "Completely out of the question! My family would never accept me doing so. They, especially my father, would view it as a sign of weakness. I would be seen as an embarrassment to the family."

"Then lie about seeing one. Make an excuse to leave so you may do so. I understand your concern about what your family might think, but it's critical for your long term mental health. The depression will continue to plague you until you address it. Seeing a psychiatrist is anything but weak. In fact, the sessions will make you stronger. Besides, you might be surprised about how accepting your family might be."

My thoughts went to Braddock. He was someone I had not known, yet I had trusted him to confide deep personal thoughts never shared with anyone else. It was his encouragement which had given me the strength to face myself and ultimately, make peace with my father. If Braddock was local, I would accept his offer to continue our "conversation" in the future. But, he was in the United States.

There was a discrete knock at the door bringing our conversation to an abrupt end.

"Enter," I called.

Fraulein Rosen entered. "Supper will be served in fifteen minutes, Herr Dietrich. I have readied the guest room upstairs and placed Herr Doktor's bag in it."

"Thank you, Fraulein Rosen. We have just finished and will be there shortly."

She turned to face Keaton. "Herr Doktor, thank you for your generous gifts. It was very kind of you."

He rose and gave her a gallant bow. "You are most welcome, my dear lady," he responded in his lightly accented German.

A faint touch of pink colored Fraulein Rosen's face before she made a hasty exit.

Conversation was lively at supper, with my family peppering Keaton with questions regarding Virginia. He discussed in detail the growing of tobacco at his family's estate. Afterwards, we enjoyed cognac and real coffee in the drawing room. It wasn't until almost midnight we retired for the evening.

I walked Keaton to his Jeep after breakfast the next day.

"Thank you, Doctor, for your visit. I appreciate you taking the time to check on my welfare."

"It was my pleasure, Major. I can't remember when I've had such a pleasant visit, certainly not since before the war." He reached under the seat and placed Sally on the passenger seat where she would be in plain view and within easy reach. "Keep in mind our conversation from yesterday. Just a suggestion if you should choose to follow it."

I nodded. "I will, when the opportunity presents itself."

He pulled out a drawstring bag and began stuffing a brown leafy substance into his mouth. He saw me watching, and tossed me the bag.

"Help yourself," he offered.

"What is it?" I asked suspiciously.

"Only the best chewing tobacco grown in Virginia, straight from my family's plantation. My brother sends it to me directly, bypassing all the regulations and taxes. It's a much higher quality than what's available from the Army." Keaton paused, spitting out a stream of tobacco juice.

I could only think how horrified my mother would have been if she had witnessed him. Never would she have believed such a cultured, educated man as Keaton would do such an act.

"My brother has done well for the family by continuing to run the plantation during the war. The idiots in Washington wouldn't accept him because he has only one leg." He shook his head in disgust. "Very shortsighted on their part! Given his keen intellect, the war would have ended months earlier if he had been involved."

He must have noticed my look when he mentioned his brother losing his leg.

"Yes, it was horrific how my brother lost his leg. We were ten, twelve years old, and went out frog gigging one summer day. He warned me not to wade too far out into the water, but, of course, not being as smart as him, I paid no attention. He went after me to pull me back when a gator . . ."

"'Gator'?"

"Alligator. Came up out of nowhere and took his leg off at the knee. At least it was a clean bite, and he felt no pain. A surgeon couldn't have done a neater job. My brother had the last laugh, though, against the gator."

"In what way?"

"Why, there he was, hanging out of the gator's mouth, but he had the sense to bring up the frog gigger up through the gator's soft underbelly, right into the heart. Gator rolled over dead like he was pole-axed. He was a big one, too, over fourteen feet. We skinned the gator and had matching boots made from his hide. Of course, my brother only needed one boot. He gave the extra boot to another one legged man."

Keaton's cavalier attitude towards his brother's tragic loss at such a young age shocked me. He looked at me before he burst out laughing, slapping his knee in mirth.

"You're laughing at your brother losing his leg?"

"My brother actually lost his lower leg from jumping off the barn roof. It was so severely shattered he had to have it amputated. The gator story is what my brother told the girls when he was away at the University of William and Mary. Never failed to get him laid. The sympathy ploy, I guess. The women just went wild for him, he almost had to beat them off with the frog gigger. There must have been something erotic for women doing it with a one-legged man having thick blonde hair, good looks and a southern drawl.

"Just to let you know, he's happily married to a drop-dead gorgeous successful writer and has three beautiful children. God, sometimes I wish it had been me instead of him who had lost a leg." He shook his head with a laugh, before becoming serious.

"Major, don't be self-conscious about your back. The right woman will never notice it. My brother is living proof that women really don't care."

I remained silent, doubting his words, despite his fantastical tale.

He indicated the tobacco bag. "Are you going to try some or not?"

I took a small amount of the tobacco and put it in my mouth, imitating him. I began working it in my mouth. It had a surprisingly sweet taste and the nicotine rush soon hit me with a lovely force. I began choking as the juice went down my throat, causing nausea to rise within me.

"You have to spit, Major," he said laughing.

I leaned over and spat out what juice I could. "Allow me to show you the proper way to spit." For the next few minutes I practiced until he indicated his approval. I went to return him the bag when he indicated for me to keep it. "Enjoy it. There is more where that came from."

"Thank you. I have never chewed tobacco before," I choked out, "but even through my inexperience I can appreciate your family's tobacco is first rate. No doubt the American soldiers stationed in Coburg would be jealous if they knew I possessed it."

He looked at me oddly, before giving me the slightest smile. "You are also a smart man, Major. I do believe I will contact my brother regarding your observation when I return home. He will have a few thoughts concerning it. Yes, he most certainly will. He's the intelligent one of the family and much cleverer than me."


	14. Chapter 13

We celebrated a subdued and simple Christmas in 1945. We decided to decorate only with evergreens. All of us gathered the greenery from the forest, placing the boughs over the doorways and on the mantles. Our lone Christmas tree was decorated simply with candles. Compared to other Germans, we were fortunate. We had lost no one, we had some food and we had shelter.

We attended an early afternoon Christmas Eve mass to ensure we would arrive home before the curfew. We had little choice but to walk to the cathedral given the scarcity of petrol coupons. Schnass was too frail to endure the walk. Fraulein Rosen remained at the estate with him to prepare a late supper.

The temperature was cold, the sun hidden by thick clouds which threatened rain. I thought the cathedral would be warmer, but the temperature inside was scarcely more tolerable than it was the outside. The worshipers maintained their heavy coats, bundled up and huddled against one another for some warmth. The priest and his attendants wore heavy sweaters under their vestments.

I did not recognize the priest. He was young, about my age, unlike the other priests present at the cathedral. My mother had mentioned that a dynamic new priest had returned from the war. Full of energy, he was bringing hope to the population. My mother promised Schnass she would request the new priest to visit to both hear his confession and to administer communion to him during the holiday season.

There were several American soldiers attending the service, most of them sitting near the rear. I expected them to be their normal loud and boisterous selves, but they were quiet and respectful. Their faces reddened and they looked downward when they received distasteful glares from several of the senior women.

My attitude towards the soldiers softened. They were here to worship the birth of our Savior and should be welcome no matter what their nationality. Those near me gave polite nods as they left immediately after the mass.

We arrived home before the rain fell. We ate a light meal of lentil soup before retiring to the sitting room to enjoy real coffee served with sugar and tinned milk.

My father brought forth cognac after the coffee. It was a fine bottle which had belonged to his father. It was one of the few bottles of it remaining, and he brought one out only on special occasions. We sat near the tree and sang carols by candlelight, my father's strong bass voice leading us. It was much like the Christmases before the war, except for its simplicity.

There was no work performed on Christmas Day. For the first time since my return, there was enough food to have seconds at the meals. The remaining luxuries Keaton had brought us were the centerpiece of our festivities. Fraulein Rosen had hoarded several of our ration coupons to create a beautiful cake, filled with nuts and candied fruit. We exchanged no material gifts. Our shared gift was the thankfulness of the family surviving the war.

In the early afternoon, several friends of my parents stopped by to visit and pay their respects. Some brought their daughters and insisted on introducing them to me. I raised an eyebrow at the obviousness of their intentions, along with those of my parents. My mother in particular was eager for me to find a suitable young lady and marry. While not verbalizing her thoughts, she believed it best for me to move on from my loss of Agathe.

I was polite and respectful to the young women, but nothing more. I had socialized with many of them before the war, but our lives had taken different paths. I would make small talk before excusing myself from their company after a few minutes. I did not want to give false hope to any of the young ladies and their families, and especially not to my mother.

Later in the week, I informed my father I would be away for a few days. His eyes searched my face.

"Will you be returning?" His question caught me off guard. It was not a question I would have expected from my father.

"Why do you ask?" I countered, without providing an answer.

"I want you to return," he admitted with difficulty. "I thought I had lost you two years ago. I desire to never lose you again."

"Sir, you have my promise I will return. I will spend the time hiking and in solitude, reflecting on the past and upon the upcoming year."

"You will be staying outside?"

I laughed. "The weather will be balmy compared to the conditions I have experienced the last few years. But no, not outside. I will be at the cabin Grandfather had built for the huntsmen."

"Ah! Papa's cabin is still standing," he said, remembering with a smile. "I can't remember when I was last there."

"Yes, and it remains in good condition. It was near there I discovered the berries."

"You always liked his cabin since you were a boy. My father said he had it built to outlast him. It has, and will probably outlast me, too." He returned to the present. "Take what you need for your stay. I will see to it you are not disturbed."

"Sir, would you take care of my men if they should arrive during my absence?"

He gave me short nod. "Your men will always be welcome here."

I left soon after lunch, without saying good bye to anyone. The hike to the cabin was much easier for me than it had been five months ago. Constant hard work had served me well, building up my endurance. I made it without stopping, sipping water as I continued moving. There was no time to waste. The sun was low in the sky and darkness would settle soon in the forest.

As before, I approached the cabin with caution, expecting someone to have taken up residence inside. I looked for the pine needle. It remained in the door jam undisturbed where it had been left.

I slipped off my heavy rucksack and placed it on the bed. Stretching my back, I rubbed my shoulders where the straps had chaffed them. The pack would be much lighter on the return trip. My food went on the shelf and a bottle of white wine was placed outside to chill. The wine would not take long to reach an icy perfection in the cool temperature.

No sense roughing it.

I went about making the small cabin comfortable for my stay. The wooden windows were unlatched and pushed open to emit light and to air the room. Not wanting to rise in the cold morning and fetch wood, I carried in several armfuls and prepped a fire. I filled the coffee pot and a basin with water from the pump and placed them on the stove. I would make a tea from dried berry leaves in place of coffee tomorrow.

I unrolled a mattress, expecting to see holes where vermin had eaten away at it over the years, but there were none. Not only was the cabin sealed from the elements, it was also well protected from pests. The bed was soon made with fresh linens and blankets, the corners tight as from my academy days. My journal and a few books went on the table along with the Walther.

The cabin would definitely be comfortable during my stay, a palace compared to the majority of the places I had quartered in during the war.

I leaned against the door frame, looking out at the peaceful scene. The view from the porch was a beautiful sight. The scenery and solitude were what had always drawn me here. A sudden desire to share the moment with someone rose within me. I felt a stab of regret at the realization I had no one. The loneliness surprised me. It was the first time I had felt the desire to be with a woman since Agathe's death. Perhaps, as Keaton had mentioned, the pain was lessening and I was emerging from my grief.

The sound of the wind rustling the tree limbs reached me before its force touched my face. Leaves and needles scattered around, several blowing inside. A shiver went through me. The temperature was dropping fast along with the sun.

I opened the stove's flue and lit a fire. The fire drew fine and no smoke filled the cabin. I added a few more pieces of wood and closed the grate. The warmth began emanating from the stove. After retrieving the wine, I bolted the door and latched the windows, sealing myself inside. The windows fit snugly with only an occasional draft entering.

The room glowed from the stove and was soon comfortable, almost intimate. My tunic was no longer needed and was folded unto the empty rack. Hungry, I placed a potato in the fire to roast and opened the wine with my knife, pouring a generous amount into a mug. I gave myself a toast and sat on the rack, with my back to the wall, as I waited for my simple supper to cook.

Soon, I was relaxed, both inside and outside. I lit a candle and reached for my journal. My hands caressed the cover before turning to the final entry, my handwriting leaping from the page:

26 Januar 1945 - The war is down to its final desperate months, if not weeks. I pray for my men and my family to be safely delivered. As for myself, I have little hope to survive until the end.

Writing these lines was etched in my memory, along with the near desperation we were facing at the time. My unit had been in a constant state of retreat, with insane orders not to yield a millimeter. Adding to the insanity had been orders to counterattack and drive back the Allies. With what? There had been no replacement troops, and we had had little ammunition to defend ourselves, let alone to be used on the offensive.

My prophecies had been half correct. Germany had lasted a scant twelve weeks after my entry, but I had survived to read a desperate man's words.

I reached for my pen and wrote a simple entry:

30 Dezember 1945 - I offer humble thanksgivings to a merciful God for my deliverance from death through the hands of the American commando, Sergeant Sam Troy.

The journal fell back into my lap. I stared across the room. Instead of seeing the walls of a rustic cabin, it was the arid plains of North Africa I saw. I remembered the desert as clearly if it had been yesterday. The ungodly heat I had learned to love, the omnipresent flies, the odors of perspiration and diesel mixed with the heavy metallic scent of blood, the blood of my men shed by the Rat Patrol.

Troy. Sergeant Sam Troy.

The American cowboy and I had both survived against long odds.

In Africa and Europe, our paths had crossed and merged into one before parting again. I had saved his life, and, in turn, he had saved mine. Ironic, given there had been no shortage of attempts by either of us to kill the other.

His tally sheet had surpassed mine: He had only lost one man compared to the dozens of mine who had fallen against his team.

Troy had left Germany, likely returning to the United States to an advantageous life. The American economy was strong due to the country's success in the war and it boasted an intact infrastructure. Like most Americans who never missed the opportunity to profit from another's difficulty, Troy was probably becoming prosperous due to the vibrant post war American economy.

I placed all thoughts of Troy aside. It was a folly to speculate about him. I would not see him again.

My journal continued to beckon me. Once I began writing, I was unable to cease.

The lost months filled blank pages, as I recorded the details of my missing life. My frantic scribbling was scarcely able to keep up with my thoughts. I had no idea how long I wrote. I paused only to refill my pen and to eat my supper.

Sometime past midnight, I placed the journal aside, though I was still not finished recording the war. There would be much time over the next few days to record my life to the present. It had waited for months. It could wait until tomorrow.

I added a few more pieces of wood to the fire and finished the wine. Stripping down, I slipped into bed. The Spartan rack was hard, but preferable to my soft bed at home. After a life in the military, my body was still accustomed to being uncomfortable. I blew out the candle and settled down under the heavy blankets, listening to the sounds of the forest around me.

A harsh wind had risen. Tree branches brushed and scraped against the roof. A strong blast of wind rattled the windows, and a slight draft blew across me. There was a wail from the flue and the fire glowed brighter for a moment before calming.

The wine, and more so the writing, had relaxed me. I listened to the wind for a few moments feeling safe and calm.

Guest would not visit me here. My sleep would be deep and without fears.

It wasn't long before my eyes grew heavy and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The sound of rustling leaves pulled me from a deep sleep. The wind had stopped and judging by the angle of the sun sneaking in through the window cracks, it was mid-morning.

Someone was walking outside, making me instantly alert. The steps stopped, before resuming again. They were soft, tentative steps, someone exploring. The person must have followed the smoke and came to investigate the cabin.

I reached for the Walther and silently armed it. Slipping from the rack, I padded on my bare feet to the window and cracked it open, bringing the weapon up while glancing out from the side.

The intruder caused me to smile.

It was a deer, her muzzle to the ground, foraging for food. It had been so long since I had seen such an animal. The doe was a beautiful creature and I stared at her in wonder. She was fat and sleek, with large dark eyes. By her size, she appeared to be young, less than two years old.

The doe must have caught my scent, because her head jerked up and she halted, sniffing the air. She locked eyes with me, her nose twitching. Believing me to be of no threat, she resumed chewing, before continuing her search for food.

The doe would feed my family well.

I could not remember when we last had had fresh meat, let alone tender venison. She would be easy to dress and carry down to the estate, draped over my shoulders. It would be a simple kill and could be kept quiet. The majority of the gunshot would be contained within the cabin. No sound would carry to Coburg for the Americans to hear and to investigate the possession of a firearm.

I brought the Walther up and took aim, a clean shot to the head. She would feel no pain, she would never realize what had happened.

The deer raised her head again to look at me. In turn, I eyed her flesh, estimating her weight, but stopped at her midsection. Her slight, rounded sides indicated she was pregnant. Somehow, she and a stag had survived the war and found each other. Their offspring would begin to repopulate the local forest and other nearby areas of Germany.

I found myself wavering. So many men killed, and countless animals slaughtered for food during the war. How could one more living creature be killed, especially one which carried life inside of her?

Nonsense. Food was more important, especially difficult to obtain protein.

As I argued with myself, I realized it was useless. My inner war of sentimentality could not be won.

I could not kill her and her unborn fawn, even at the expense of my family. We would survive, hungry, but we would live without sacrificing them.

The doe met my eyes. Her dark muzzle quivered as she looked at me, questioning my intentions.

"Leave," I warned her in a soft voice. "Leave now with your precious gift before my stomach overrules my foolishness."

She calmly chewed for a moment and turned away, unconcerned. With a flash of her tail she moved on, blending into the forest as she disappeared.

Cursing at myself for being an idiotic fool, I closed the window against the morning chill and returned the Walther to the table. Angrily, I stoked the fire and pulled on my clothes. A turnip and a few carrots roasted in the embers, along with a stale roll, would comprise my breakfast.

Bon appetite.

The late morning was spent hiking. On this final day of 1945, the solitude allowed me to reflect on the status of my life. Ties with my family, especially my father, had been much improved. But, although my family had welcomed me home, I could not live on the estate forever.

As a man, it was critical for my self-worth for me to re-establish a career. It would be a difficult challenge. There were limited opportunities available for a man who had known nothing else except the military. All of us surviving soldiers would be competing for the few jobs available in a destroyed, post-war Germany. The Allies would be in no hurry for Germany to rebuild itself limiting opportunities further. With difficulty, I accepted it could be necessary to emigrate abroad once my family was secure.

The hike pushed me mentally and physically. I returned exhausted and allowed myself the luxury of a nap, sleeping until the late afternoon.

The sun was beginning to dip, shading the forest in lengthening shadows when I arose. The scene was beautiful and calm. Sitting on the cabin's steps, I studied my surroundings from an artist's perspective. The contrast between light and dark would be challenging to capture solely in charcoal.

I retrieved my sketchbook from my pack along with my materials. Deftly sharpening a charcoal, I blocked the scene in my mind and began with bold marks across the paper.

The scene was completed when the natural light began fading to a soft gray. Frowning, I studied my efforts. It was adequate, little more than what an entry level student would produce. Not up to the works I had created in the past. My talent lent more towards portraits than landscapes. But, it was the first work I had created since capturing the Rommels' dancing. It should not be a surprise for it to be poor after so much time had passed.

The sudden desire to sketch my father came over me. The thought surprised me. I had never wanted to connect with him in such a personal way. He would be a fascinating subject to capture, and it would be interesting which aspect of his personality would emerge from my efforts. Before I attempted such a challenge, my skill would need to improve greatly. It would be a goal to which I would look forward to achieving.

I relished a bottle of vintage champagne in the evening.

"Happy New Year," I said out loud, toasting myself. "Here's to 1946 and whatever it should bring." I took a sip of champagne and savored it. It was an excellent vintage, much too good to be enjoying alone. Champagne like this called for a beautiful woman. Not a recluse bachelor in an ancient cabin, with only memories keeping him company.

The lavish parties my parents had hosted for the holiday came to mind. Christmas was for the immediate family, but New Year's was shared with their extensive circle of friends. Their parties had once been legendary in Coburg. Now they had faded to nothing more than a distant memory for everyone.

They had not hosted one since the closing moments of 1937.

My parents had thought it distasteful to host a festive party during the war when people were dying. After the war, they had promised. Then, there would be reasons to celebrate the joy of living, such as the announcement of Liesl's, or my, engagement. Well, perhaps Liesl's.

Certainly not mine.

My plan had been to leave the next day, but in the morning it began snowing. I stood on the steps watching the snow descend. It was peaceful, the snowflakes falling without a sound.

The snow was nothing more than a light dusting. It would melt by noon.

While it would cause no hindrance to my journey home, it was an easy excuse to stay an extra day.

There was a part of me which strongly wanted to remain here indefinitely, but I also knew returning was inevitable. As much as I enjoyed being a recluse, it was not feasible.

I spent the day napping, sketching and writing, relaxed and content. In the afternoon, I replenished the wood from the surrounding area and stacked it next to the cabin to dry and season. That way, there would be sufficient fuel for my next visit. I knew I would have little desire to gather it tomorrow morning.

Before leaving, I cleaned the cabin, wanting it to be ready for my return in the spring. I allowed the stove to cool and swept out the ashes and wiped out the flue. All the utensils and dishes were washed and replaced on the shelf. The mattress was again rolled up and the blankets folded and left on the rack. The floor was swept of the needles and dirt which had blown in.

I closed the cabin door replacing a pine needle in the doorframe. It was time for me to return home.


	15. Chapter 14

"Hans, Andreas, Papa and Mutti are out and are not expected to return until tomorrow. Would you escort me into town?" Liesel requested, eager as a puppy wanting to play.

"Can it wait until tomorrow, Liesl?" I asked. "The Kommandant would be the only man left on the estate left to protect Fraulein Rosen. You know he is not well." Left unsaid was my extreme desire not to leave the estate unless absolutely necessary.

"Please, Hans!" she pleaded. "I have not seen Charlotte in ages. I would like to visit her and take her some fruit. It will only be for a very short time. Please! Besides, you have hardly set foot off the estate for ages, not even to visit a barber. You have me cut your hair instead."

To the uneducated listener, her statement might not have meant much. However, Liesl spoke a pertinent truth. My sister had many wonderful talents. Barbering was not among them. In trade for seclusion, I had sacrificed my once immaculate appearance to her.

Still, I shook my head.

"It will do you good to get out and see the world." She threw her arms wide. "Coburg is beginning to come alive again."

"There is no reason for me to leave, Liesl. I've already seen enough of the world and have no desire to see any more of what little it has to offer. Trust me, I would much rather stay here."

She said nothing, looking at me with those dark brown eyes. I found myself wavering.

After a few more moments, I relinquished myself to her request. "Very well, Liesl. I never have been able to deny you. But it is only to visit Charlotte, nothing more. We will return immediately afterwards."

"Thank you, Hans! You won't regret it, I promise."

It was a beautiful spring day, perfect for a walk to the city. Liesl's enthusiasm was contagious, and I initially shared her high spirits until we actually reached the city's edge. American soldiers were everywhere, more so than my last visit. They were on the streets, in the cafes, the shops. One could not escape them. I resented their presence, and their casual attitude. It was as if they owned my country and I was the stranger.

I angrily corrected myself: The Americans did own my country, or at least this section of it.

Many of the soldiers had German women hanging on their arms. Several of the women were visibly intoxicated even given the early hour. They were laughing, unashamed, even allowing the men to feel their bodies in public.

Coburg had always been a conservative city. I had never witnessed such coarse behavior from its women before. As open as I was about sex, such blatant public displays shocked me. Many of the women I knew, others I did not. The women I did know looked away from me, not wanting to meet my eyes, not even wanting to acknowledge they knew me.

Germans were nothing now. American servicemen were everything.

"How long has it been this way, Liesl?"

"Quite some time, Hans," she responded matter of factly, without even a hint of judgement or emotion. "There are so few German men, and even fewer jobs for them to hold. The Americans are the only ones with money. Now, just as always, women are doing what they must to survive."

It was not necessary for Liesl to explain exactly what the women were doing.

Thankfully, she did not feel the need. We were both silent until we reached our destination.

Charlotte and her son lived in a small flat above a shop off a main thoroughfare. As cramped as it was, she was fortunate to possess it. We climbed the stairs to her loft. Liesl pounded upon the door with a boisterous enthusiasm until it was opened.

Despite having known the woman who greeted us for years, the sight of her still took a bit of my breath away. Charlotte had been a beautiful girl, but in her full bloom she was a devastatingly handsome woman. Even after bearing a child, she still possessed the enviable frame of an elegant Paris mannequin. The honey blonde hair might have been a shade darker than I recalled, but those striking green eyes somehow seemed darker as well. Older, wiser, knowing – They alone could possess a man, steal his soul and haunt him forever in his dreams.

A rare woman, not only was Charlotte a great beauty, but she also possessed a keen intellect. Often, it manifested itself as a rapier sharp wit. However, it only served as a foil for her caring personality. Charlotte was, in short, as close to the perfect woman as any I had ever met. I was far from alone in my opinion.

And, I swear, if she had not been Liesl's closest friend, I would have gladly lined up with all her other suitors. Without shame, I would have joined them in begging pathetically for any crumb of affection she might see fit to grant.

But, it had been Alexander who had finally won Charlotte's hand, six months before the war had begun. They had enjoyed a wonderful marriage which tragedy had ended all too soon. Alexander had been among the war's last victims, falling the day before I had. Charlotte had been eight months pregnant at his death, blessed with a child who had been the result of Alexander's last hurried overnight furlough home.

Liesl showered Charlotte with kisses as she handed her a bag of fruit. She began updating her on the latest gossip before we were barely in the door. With some effort, Charlotte was finally able to break free of Liesl to greet me.

"Hans! What a wonderful surprise! I'm so happy Liesl was able to talk you into visiting us. I haven't seen you since you first arrived home. You've kept yourself well hidden."

"Hello Charlotte," I greeted her by giving her a kiss on each cheek. "You are as beautiful as ever. You alone are worth breaking my self-imposed exile."

"How is Gregor, Charlotte darling? I want to see the baby." Liesl continued to prattle on as she linked arms with her.

The toddler was sitting on the carpet, playing with a few wooden toys.

He looked up when we entered and gave us a happy smile, showing his few teeth. He was tall for his age, the image of his father.

I went to him, returning his smile. "A fine boy, Charlotte."

"He is my world, Hans. He gave me reason to continue living after Alexander fell."

I met her eyes with heart felt understanding, before I had to look away.

If only my child and his mother had not perished, I knew I would be a far different man, a better man . . .

"It's such a beautiful day," exclaimed Liesl, interrupting the somber moment. "We should go for a walk in the park. The fresh air will do Gregor well."

The park was filled with others enjoying the day. The park was free, which was a blessing as the locals could afford little else for entertainment. Somehow, the groundskeepers managed to maintain it despite the absence of resources and the heavy usage by both Germans and the Americans. It was neat and tidy, if somewhat sparser than how I remembered it.

The wooden railings which had once bordered it had disappeared along with many of the trees and shrubs. Obviously, they had been cut down and stolen as firewood during the previous winter. Their absence gave the grounds an uneven look with bare spots. An occasional tree stump remained, used as a stool for someone wanting to rest.

Charlotte had herself sat down when Gregor indicated interest in some colorful flowers. Liesl and I took him to inspect them, his small hands touching the soft petals. I had just removed a flower from his mouth for a second time when there was a commotion behind us. Charlotte was sitting on the bench, sandwiched between two American soldiers. One was grabbing her thigh.

I immediately handed Gregor to Liesl and went to Charlotte.

The soldiers saw me approaching and looked up, wondering about my intentions.

I grabbed the soldier who had groped Charlotte and jerked him to his feet. English, barely used since my release from the American forces, returned to me fast and furious.

"The German woman you just touched."

"So? What about her, Kraut Boy? She your woman? Afraid of a little competition from a good ol' American boy?" His friends laughed. "I don't blame you a bit, though. Seeing as how all your girls like us better than they do you. Must be real hard on you all—"

My hand snaked out. I grabbed him by the throat and threw him against a nearby tree. "I am acting as her brother. Besides, an American prick such as you would hardly be any competition for me."

The other men became quiet, unsure of what to do.

I began squeezing the private's throat. Soon, he became red faced and began struggling for air.

Liesl was soon by my side, shouting something I was unable, unwilling, to hear. Her slender hands reached out to grab my wrist, trying to pull my hand away from the man's throat.

I snapped out of it and relaxed my grip just enough for him to breathe. "If you ever bother this woman again, I will kill you. Do you understand?" He attempted to speak, but was unable to do so. "A nod will do," I ordered, "to ensure we understand one another."

He gave a slight nod, my hand preventing him from moving his head far.

I released him, and he sank to the ground, gasping.

"Consider yourself lucky, Ami Boy. Next time, there will be no warning."

Liesl stood with her hands to her face, her eyes wide and horrified. She was more upset at my action than at what had happened to Charlotte. There were several Germans near us who had witnessed the incident. They, too, looked concerned and appalled. Not at the actions of the American, but instead, at mine.

Gott in Himmel! What was the world coming to?

I ran a hand through my hair, ignoring the judgement of those around me. "Let us escort Charlotte home, Liesl, and then we will leave."

I picked up Gregor, and offered Charlotte my arm. From behind us, the soldiers were muttering in low voices.

"Dirty Krauts, both the bastard and those two bitches. Just them wait. They'll get what's coming to them."

There was a silence between Liesl and me as we walked home.

When we neared the estate, I finally spoke. "I will inform Father of what happened when he returns tomorrow, Liesl. He will need to know."

Left unsaid was that the entire family, not just me, could face repercussions for my actions.

"Hans, I am so, so sorry!" she blurted, obviously anguished. "I never meant for anything to happen by suggesting we walk in the park."

Anger surged through me again. Not only had the filthy American violated Charlotte's person, his actions had ultimately caused upset to my own dear sister. Any other time or place, I would have made him pay for his sins until he had nothing left to give. But in this world gone mad, there was a new hierarchy, one which could not be broken without consequence.

I stifled a snort. Hitler had envisioned a new order, one with Germany on top, and he had gone to war with the rest of the globe to achieve it. The end result of his madness could not have been further from his insane desires. I, for one, was sorry he had not lived to experience the aftermath.

It would have served him right.

I exhaled my frustration as a ragged sigh. "Liesl, there is no reason for you to apologize. It was not of your doing. You had no control over his crude behavior."

"I've never seen you like that before. Honestly, I never suspected you were capable of committing such an act. For a moment, I thought you were serious about killing him."

If Liesl only knew what I was capable of doing, the number of men I'd killed, and for far lesser reasons. At least killing the soldier for Charlotte's honor would have been worth something compared to so many of the other deaths.

We stopped at the entry gates, glancing down the road to ensure there was no one following us. "Be warned, Liesl. The American soldiers will follow through on their threat."

Her chin lifted and her eyes grew hard. "I am not afraid of them. Perhaps they should be afraid of _me_."

Ah! Standing next to me was the tough sister she had always been. Laughing, I agreed with her. "God help him if he should try such an act with you."

It did not take long for my prediction to come true. The American military police arrived in the early afternoon.

Fraulein Rosen came hustling to find me.

"The _Amis_ are here and _demand_ to speak with you immediately, Herr Dietrich!"

"How many?"

"Two. A major along with his pimply faced driver. I have _him_ waiting in the library. I didn't trust to have _him_ wait in the sitting room with the silver. They'll take anything not nailed down as a war souvenir."

"I take it you mean the major and not the driver is waiting in the library."

"Of course it's the major in the library! The driver appears not to even appear old enough to read a book, let alone understand the purpose of a library." Her voice dripped with contempt, which was soon replaced with concern. "What could they possibly want with you?"

There was only one reason for them to here, but I did not want to worry her. "Considering that there are only two, I would expect not much," I responded to calm her.

I took my time walking back. The major and his acne prone young driver could well wait for me.

Fraulein Rosen continued fretting. "My God! There are Americans in the house! Your father's house! What is the world coming to, to have Amis on the grounds, let alone in the house? If only your father was here!"

"It is not necessary for him to be here, Fraulein. I will handle the situation." She faced me, beginning to argue, but stopped, her eyes searching my face. The doubt and anxiety lining her face softened and faded, my reassurance calming her.

"I believe you, Herr Dietrich, and I will put my trust in you."

We made our way back to the main house. An American military vehicle was parked in the circular drive. We passed its young driver who did, indeed, possess a terrible case of acne. He came to attention as we neared. I gave him a disinterested glance while Fraulein Rosen stared him down without mercy. He withered away from her and a look of triumph glowed on her face.

I stopped before we entered the library. "Please bring water and fruit to the driver and to us in the library."

"Why should we be wasting our precious food on them? We can exchange it for things we don't have. They certainly have enough to eat while we don't."

"Fraulein Rosen, please do as I ask."

She gave a strong harrumph. "Well, we have little else to offer these days except plums and apples from the garden."

"I am sure they will do."

"I do hope they'll be to their liking." Another harrumph. "Too bad, if not."

I gave her a look before I opened the door.

A tall man was standing in front of the shelves, admiring the books. He turned to face us when we entered.

Fraulein Rosen did not step foot over the threshold. "Will there be anything else, _Major_ _Dietrich_?" she asked formally, suddenly the picture of compliant servitude.

"Nothing else. Thank you, Fraulein Rosen." She looked the American major up and down before leaving, closing the double doors behind her. The last harrumph was muffled, but very real.

The American was my height and approximately my age. His face possessed strong, chiseled features, a visage which I was certain both women and the camera loved. With his light blue-gray eyes and his dark blonde hair combed back, he could have been the perfect Aryan portrayed in Nazi recruiting posters. On the table was his cover, casually placed aside.

"Major Hans Dietrich, I am Major Gerhard Stegner," he introduced himself.

"Major." We both remained standing. Neither one of us had offered the other his hand.

From the few words the major had spoken, his German was crisp and flawless, spoken with a slight Bavarian accent. Either he had defected from the Wehrmacht to work with the Americans, or he had been raised in the United States with German parents. My instinct led me to believe the latter.

There was no mistaking the Prussian self-confidence he exuded. I had been surrounded by it my entire life. It was a trait one was born with, not one acquired.

"You have an extensive library. It includes several books which were banned and burned by the Nazis."

"My literary view were different than those of the Nazis. I do not believe in banning, or burning, books just because I disagree with the viewpoint of the author."

He said nothing, his face remaining impassive.

"Why are you here, Stegner? It is not to discuss literature."

He wasted no time stating his reason. "There was an incident in the park near the Platz today, late this morning. An American soldier was physically accosted by a German officer. The same officer also threatened to kill the American soldier."

I raised my eyebrows. "The incident sounds rather odd."

"Odd?" he questioned with a frown. "There were witnesses, German and American. How could it possibly be odd?" he snapped, impatient.

"I meant your reference to a German officer, not the incident. My understanding is there should be no German officers remaining in Germany. The Allies have seen to their dismissal."

His mouth hardened, an indication of his frustration, but he ignored my comment.

"There's more."

"Is there?" I glanced pointedly at my watch. "If you could arrive at your point? I have pressing business which needs my attention."

Stegner's frustration was obvious, despite his efforts to control it. "The American soldier had solicited a German woman for a sexual favor, inciting the incident." His words were strong and direct towards me. "I was informed you were the German who accosted this American."

"Oh? And your witnesses? Who are they?"

"Only half of Coburg, Dietrich. You can knock off the innocent act." Stegner shook his head. "I know you were the German officer. Your sister was there along with the other German woman."

"The control and domination of Germany by the Allies should not extend to its women, Stegner. No woman, no matter the circumstances, should be treated so poorly by a man. Especially not one who has her young son accompanying her." My voice was cold and hard.

The growing tension was broken by a knock at the door.

Fraulein Rosen entered and placed a tray on the table. She looked Stegner up and down, without a word, and only a slight sniff. Head held high, she left, closing the door behind her. On the tray was a pitcher of water and glasses. Several apples and plums were nestled inside a matching cut crystal bowl, the only refreshments we had to offer.

I indicated for Stegner to have a seat. I poured us each a glass of water and passed the fruit bowl to him. He politely took only one piece, although I saw his eyes linger on the remaining fruit, before he began pressing me about the incident again.

"Germany's current situation is not of my doing, Dietrich. I am under orders to clean up the mess your country made. Until I return home, I will uphold the laws initiated by the Allied forces, including pursuing those who have committed the crimes of assault and battery."

"Your departure, and that of all the Allies, cannot arrive soon enough to suit me and my countrymen. And, you can take your laws and _your efforts_ to uphold them with you. We will not miss them, either."

There was a strained silence between us, while we each glared at the other. Stegner ate his apple in a few bites, wrapping the core in his handkerchief.

He was the first one to speak. "May I speak with the woman who was assaulted?"

"Why?"

"It is necessary for her to identify the American soldier involved. I can assure you, she is in no trouble and will not be blamed for the incident."

"I can identify him on her behalf."

"You were not the one assaulted, Dietrich. As the victim of the crime, she must be the one to identify her assailant."

I hesitated. Charlotte had experienced enough difficulties over the last year without the Americans asking questions.

"You do want justice for her, don't you?"

Grudgingly, I agreed. "You may do so only if I am present. I think of the woman as a sister. She is a war widow with a young child, the epitome of German society. I do not want her badgered over something I did."

Stegner raised his eyebrows. "I will treat her with nothing but respect. It is obvious the contempt you hold against me and my fellow Americans. The majority of us do not deserve it."

I rose and indicated the door. "Then I encourage you to prove you are different."

We stepped outside. The young driver briskly saluted the major before he opened the automobile doors for us. The drive to Coburg was short. Except for when I provided the driver Charlotte's address, we rode in silence.

The American vehicle immediately garnered attention when it pulled up in front of Charlotte's building. The onlookers were silent, only their eyes followed Stegner as we entered the building.

Charlotte opened the door soon after I knocked. Stegner immediately came to attention when he saw her. She had a brief look of surprise before her eyes narrowed at the sight of the American.

I stepped forward. "Frau Charlotte Mann, allow me to introduce you to Major Gerhard Stegner."

"Madam," he said, clicking his heels and bowing slightly while he swept off his cover.

Now I was convinced he was a native German. American servicemen, including officers, did not display such traditional and formal respect when being introduced to a German woman.

Stegner's eyes traversed her, taking in her beautiful face and trim figure. As a fellow man, I could not help but to notice his immediate attraction to her. My jaw hardened, but he did not see the warning.

"Frau Mann, I am with the American military police," Stegner informed Charlotte.

"You don't say. Should I be impressed? Are you expecting me to swoon into your arms?" Charlotte retorted.

Stegner was caught off guard and colored. He took a few seconds to regain his poise before proceeding. "May I enter?"

Disinterested, Charlotte opened the door wide and waved him in. She then turned her attention to me, her radiant countenance a sharp contrast to the coldness with which she had shown Stegner.

"Ah, Hans! Twice in one day I have the pleasure of seeing you. And, it is a pleasure, despite the company you are currently keeping." The last part she hissed out while looking at Stegner.

For the second time today, I kissed her on both cheeks.

"The pleasure is always mine, Charlotte darling."

Gregor had been hiding behind Charlotte, tangled in her skirt, but his curiosity soon overcame him. He walked out, staring up at Stegner without fear and with big blue eyes. He then wrapped his arms around Stegner's legs, surprising him. The man gazed down at the child, his face softening. In an unexpected motion, he swept Gregor up, holding him high over his head while the boy squealed with delight.

"Gregor!" Charlotte cried before rushing to Stegner. She reached for the still laughing child. Stegner lowered the boy and handed him to her, a brief look of sorrow crossing his face before it was replaced by the mask of his reserved demeanor.

"I would not have hurt him, Frau Mann. I like children."

"With what? Salt and pepper?"

Stegner looked away from her.

Charlotte placed Gregor near his toys before facing Stegner.

"You must be here for a different reason, Major, then to inform me of your personal likes and dislikes."

Stegner cleared his throat, once again all business. "Frau Mann, it is my understanding there was an incident involving you this morning, in the park. I am here regarding it."

"Yes," Charlotte practically spat, her dark green eyes daggers. "An American soldier groped me and then solicited me for sexual favors. As if I was a common whore! In fact, he did everything but negotiate a price. Though, I'm sure that is what would have happened next if he had not been interrupted."

Stegner looked at me in surprise, a faint bit of color tinging his cheeks.

I gave him a slight grin. Charlotte's bluntness was strong, even for her. It was unheard of for a German woman, especially a lady, to speak so frankly regarding prostitution.

"Does the American Army plan on doing anything to control its boorish soldiers? Or is this the typical behavior I and other German women should expect in the foreseeable future, until you and these pigs see fit to leave?" Charlotte's voice was salty, her contempt for the man and what he represented obvious.

Stegner colored again. He swallowed and nodded in contrition.

"Frau Mann, I apologize on behalf of the United States and the American Army which is representing her. The soldier's behavior was inappropriate and unacceptable."

Charlotte said nothing, unimpressed by his words.

Stegner continued, seeking an end to the situation. "Would you be able to identify the perpetrator?"

Charlotte leaned forward in eagerness. "Where is he? I have no fear of confronting the _American_ pig face-to-face."

Stegner reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. He removed several photographs, placing them on the table.

"You want me to identify him through a photograph? How safe for him and how convenient for you!" Charlotte briefly glanced through them before indicating one of them with a tap of her finger.

"This one. He's the pig. Now, what do you plan on doing about him, Herr Military Policeman?"

She looked at Stegner, openly challenging him. He colored again, this time more deeply. He reached for the photographs, fumbling and dropping a few before replacing them in the envelope.

Charlotte had easily bested him, just as she did most men. Over her shoulder, I grinned at Stegner. Charlotte was no doubt different than the shrinking hausfrau victim he had been expecting.

"The soldier you have identified is already in the brig. He will face punishment according to American military codes."

"Oh, for goodness sakes!" With an air of exasperation, Charlotte placed her hands on her hips. "What was the point of me identifying him if he had already been arrested? You must have too much time on your hands to be running around looking for someone you already have. Unlike you, Major Gerbert Steiger, I have a life. I don't care to have my time wasted. Why don't you just return to America if you have so little to do here in Germany?"

"It's 'Stegner' Frau Mann," he corrected her, ignoring her last comment. "Gerhard Stegner."

I almost rolled my eyes at his sincerity. Where had the Americans found someone so smart, yet so naïve? Didn't he realize that Charlotte was deliberating forgetting his name just to toy with him?

"It was necessary for me to receive confirmation from you," he continued. "Again, I apologize for the action of my countryman. Please accept my card." He pulled a card from an inner pocket of his tunic, and held it out to Charlotte.

"Interesting, Stegner." I lowered my brows in thought. "If the suspect has already been arrested, and the lady has confirmed his identity, shouldn't the incident be concluded? There is no reason for you to offer her your card, much less for you to have visited her."

"My visit was necessary." Now it was Stegner's turn to glare at me. "For clarification purposes."

"Of course it was." My face was the picture of innocence. "And your card? Is it, too, necessary for clarification purposes?"

Stegner continued glaring at me, his jaw hardening.

"But then, perhaps it is at that." It was all I could do to stifle my smirk. "As the lady can't seem to remember your name."

"Look here, Dietrich . . ."

Ignoring our banter and suddenly seeming bored with the entire matter, Charlotte finally accepted the card. Though she did not even bother to look at it before she slipped it into her pocket.

"Good afternoon, Major," she said, curtly. She went to the door and opened it, indicating for him to leave with a dismissive jerk of her head.

"Hans, I look forward to seeing _you_ and _Liesl _soon." She glared at Stegner. "Just the two of you," she said in a voice loud enough for Stegner to hear. "Alone. As in, with no Americans."

We walked out. Still pathetically hopeful, Stegner turned to face Charlotte. "Feel free to contact me if you should have any future difficulties, Frau . . ."

The door was slammed shut and locked behind us, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Stegner stood for a moment staring at the closed door before he straightened his tunic along with his dignity. We returned to his waiting automobile. The young driver was openly nervous about the large German crowd which had surrounded the vehicle. He sped away, leaving Coburg behind with a quickness.

"Leaving your card for Charlotte was unnecessary, Stegner," I told him as we pulled up to the estate.

Again, he colored deeply, losing his cool self-assurance before he had even fully regained it.

"She might need to contact me in the future, if there is an incident involving her," he repeated himself as he attempted to explain. "She is an attractive woman and . . ." he fumbled for the words, caught in the quicksand of his own thoughts, digging himself even deeper.

"Perhaps if you do your job, there won't be any future incidents."

"Look here, Dietrich!"

"Calm down." I motioned him inside. "A brandy?" I asked. He hesitated for a moment. "Accept it, Stegner. What can your superiors do to you now that the war is over? Fire you?"

A slight smile appeared before he regained his seriousness. "If you insist, Dietrich."

Fraulein Rosen appeared at the door. Her look of relief at my return gave way to distaste as she saw Stegner was accompanying me.

"We will be in the library, Fraulein Rosen."

Her eyes narrowed at Stegner. "And his driver?" she indicated with her chin. "What of _him_?"

"He will be no trouble. He may wait outside," Stegner responded, attempting to appease her.

"Hardly. I will not hear of such rudeness, not on this estate. He can wait in the kitchen," Fraulein Rosen countered, as if to defy him.

"Smith!" Stegner barked. The man came to attention.

"Sir?"

"You have been invited to wait in the kitchen. You may do so if you like."

"I would like to, Sir." He turned to Fraulein Rosen and spoke in halting German. "Thank you, Ma'am. I appreciate your kindness."

Stegner followed me back to the library where I poured us brandies. He accepted one and sat opposite me.

"What is your background, Stegner?"

He began rattling off details as if he was reporting to duty with a senior officer.

"I am a graduate of University of California and the Berkeley School of Law. I passed the bar on my first attempt and practiced criminal law for several years in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

"The day after Pearl Harbor, I volunteered for the war. My orders were to the European theatre given my background, even though I had requested the Pacific. I have served under General . . ."

"No, not your resume and career history," I interrupted him. "I'm not interviewing you for a post, Stegner. You're a native German, aren't you? You must be. You over compensate by trying to be the perfect German, to show the Americans what Germans actually can be, how Germans _should_ be. You act more German than I do."

Away from Charlotte, he had regained his composure. "I was, I am, German," he said, locking eyes with me. "Born here. My family immigrated to the United States in the 1920's, when I was young. My family loved Germany, my father had been a soldier in the First World War, but they were already beginning to witness the Nazi turmoil and could and would not be a part of it. My family settled on a small farm, scrapping barely enough together for us to survive in the early years.

"I attended college and law school on scholarships, grateful for everything given to me by such a forgiving country. I became a US citizen, the day before sitting for my bar exam." He paused for a moment, looking into his brandy, before meeting my eyes again. "I am proud of my American citizenship, but renouncing my German citizenship was one of the most difficult things I have done in my life."

"With such an impressive background, Stegner, what are you doing here in Coburg, arresting idiot American soldiers? If anything, you should be supporting the legal teams preparing for the war crimes trials."

He said nothing, but his body stiffened and his eyes shifted downward.

Refilling his brandy, I pressed him. "They don't trust you, do they? They don't believe you 'qualify' as a real American. All they need to do is scratch your skin to smell the sauerkraut and potatoes fermenting underneath. They're concerned your loyalty will revert to the old country, you'll assist the 'Krauts' to beat the hangman's noose. Correct?"

"I was not told in those words . . . Directly."

I snorted. "It is good to know Germany was not alone in making idiotic military decisions."

He swirled his brandy, before turning the questioning to me. "And you, Dietrich? What is your background?"

I gave a laugh. "There's no reason for you to inquire, Stegner. You knew everything about me before you left your office."

A look of respect appeared in his eyes for a moment before being hidden again. He spoke crisply, without using notes, the words coming to him easily. "True, although I am only familiar with your career as a soldier. You've kept a very private life."

He began reciting my background:

"You are an academy graduate at the top of your class. Powerful friends, some you've made, others gathered from your father. You were a rising officer in the 1930's and the war enhanced your reputation. First in France and later in Africa, where you served at Generalfeldmarschall Rommel's request. One of the last to be evacuated from there before you did a second tour in France where you distinguished yourself at the Battle of the Bulge.

"You successfully switched tactics to guerilla warfare towards the end of the war, staying one step ahead of the American forces until you were captured during the final days of the war. Your capture was only due to what should have been a mortal wound. You repeatedly requested a transfer to the Eastern Front during the war, for only God knows why. Suicide in battle? Have I summed you up sufficiently?"

I frowned. "Not quite. My transfer request to the Eastern Front was only after my second posting to France. Yes, I am a private man and you know much about me, and far too much for an enemy soldier."

I refilled his glass again. Both of us were becoming more comfortable, our conversation more relaxed.

"My God, man! Why would you want to be posted to such a shithole? Even on the American side we were aware of the Soviet brutality, the unsustainable losses by the Wehrmacht against them." His voice was becoming animated, as he released the professional German soldier he no doubt normally portrayed to those around him.

I remained quiet for a moment. "I had my reasons."

He slapped his head. "Jufra. How could I forget it? Your daring move against the British at Jufra was brilliant, Dietrich. It will be discussed and studied for years." He leaned forward in his eagerness to discuss the battle.

The clock chimed and he looked up startled. He drained his glass and stood. "I can't believe it is so late. We should return before it is too dark. Some of the locals are still taking pot shots at anyone in an American uniform."

"Allow me to summon your driver, assuming he has survived Fraulein Rosen."

Their animated voices could be heard from the kitchen. The two of them were sitting at a table, conversing in German the best Smith was able. There was a bowl of apples and brandy glasses between them. Smith stood and came to attention as soon as he saw me.

"Sir!"

"Major Stegner is ready to leave, private," I informed him in English.

"Right away, Sir."

"We were having the nicest conversation, Herr Dietrich, over fruit and a brandy," Fraulein Rosen informed me, her face slightly flushed from the liquor.

Smith gave me a worried look. "Would it be okay if Major Stegner didn't know about the brandy?"

"You can always say Fraulein Rosen forced the brandy upon you and you accepted it only due to politeness. Trust me, he will understand. He has already met her twice."

Smith gave me a thin smile. His awkwardness caused his acne to appear more scarlet against his skin.

"Ma'am, thank you for the brandy and apples," Smith said in halting German. "It was kind of you to remember me. I have not had fresh fruit in months."

Smith followed me outside where Stegner stood waiting. Behind us, Fraulein Rosen appeared with two small paper sacks. She handed one to Stegner and went to hand one to Smith. The driver hesitated, looking at Stegner before accepting it.

Stegner indicated his approval and the boy brightened.

"Thank you, Ma'am! The apples are greatly appreciated."

"I consider the incident from earlier today closed, Dietrich. It will not be pursued further. The corporal is an embarrassment to the US Army and he will receive the punishment he deserves."

I nodded. "Just so you understand, my threat against the man was not idle."

For the first time he gave me a broad grin. "You actually acted with restraint. If Frau Mann had been my wife . . ." he left the remainder of his thought unsaid, a slight color appearing on his face.

I stopped him before he reached the Jeep. "Stegner, you never told me, but I take it the most difficult thing you've done was killing Germans on the battlefield."

He closed his eyes, as if remembering the occurrences, the difficulty rising to the surface before being pushed back down inside, safely hidden. "You are correct, Dietrich, even though they were the enemy and they had sought to kill me. It has crossed my mind more than once if I knew any of them."

He straightened, the cold German façade returning. "Coburg is a small city. No doubt we will be seeing each other again."

As unpleasant as the situation had been, it served the purpose of breaking down my remaining isolation. I began leaving the estate more frequently, first to visit neighbors, then to Coburg and the surrounding areas.

I saw Stegner several times over the following weeks. He began requesting me to be a liaison for former German soldiers who were having difficulties with the American forces. Several had committed silly, petty crimes, usually public drunkenness.

Some of the German soldiers I knew, others I did not.

I would vouch for all of them, and bring them to the estate until they could recover and move on. Sometimes Stegner drove out alone, other times he sent his driver for me. The driver enjoyed this aspect of his job. He always left with a small sack of fruit provided by Fraulein Rosen. In turn, Stegner and Smith never forgot the kindness she had shown them. They brought us food items almost impossible to obtain, such as sugar, butter or real coffee.

My father liked Stegner and made the effort to always meet with him when he visited the estate. For two reserved men, they were relaxed in each other's company and conversed easily. My mother was impressed by his impeccable manners and always commented on how "he is such a nice, young man."

A month after the incident, I was walking in the same park where Charlotte had been accosted. On a nearby walkway, Charlotte and Gregor came into view. I was about to call out when Stegner appeared, strolling beside them. The tall German in the American uniform was unmistakable. (Interesting how I always classified Stegner as a German, and not as an American). The man had shortened his long strides to match those of the boy, who clasped his fingers tightly for balance.

Stegner was engaged in an animated conversation with Charlotte. Their expressions were relaxed and lively, their focus only on each other. My instinct told me this encounter in the park had nothing to do with Stegner following through on Charlotte's assault. No, this was something more and it probably was not the first time he had seen her outside of his professional responsibilities.

Stegner noticed me and colored, obvious even from the distance. He gave me a slight nod which I was barely able to return with a small wave given my surprise. Stegner returned his complete attention to Charlotte as if he had not seen me.

Returning home, I confronted Liesl, asking if she was aware of Stegner seeing Charlotte personally and not professionally.

She intently studied her hands which were folded on her lap, unable to meet my eyes.

"Liesl?"

"Yes," she murmured in a small voice.

"And you did not think to mention this small fact to me?"

Her eyes remained downcast. "Charlotte is an adult woman and can make her own choices. It really is none of your business."

"And neither is it yours. Were you involved in any of this?"

"No," she said too fast. She glanced up before again looking down again. "Well, just a bit. Only in the beginning."

Liesl began to squirm under my glare. "And? Pray tell me: How did you interfere?"

"I wouldn't quite call it interfering."

Receiving no response from me, she continued. "From what Charlotte told me, it was obvious he was attracted to her which just made her all that much angrier. She thought it was rather nervy of him given the circumstances. She ripped up his card and threw it in the trash." Liesl hesitated before continuing. "When she wasn't looking, I took the pieces and pasted them together," she admitted.

"Did you telephone Stegner and pretend to be Charlotte? Tell me you did not do something so juvenile."

"Of course I didn't call and pretend to be Charlotte! Even I have my limits, Hans!" She finally met my eyes. "From what Charlotte told me, it was obvious they were perfect for one another. I just felt the two of them needed some gentle . . . What's the word I should use? . . . Encouragement . . . From an impartial outsider to bring them together."

"Impartial? You? Little Miss Matchmaker?" I snorted. "Exactly what did you do, Liesl?"

"If you would give me a chance I would tell you! I only telephoned him and said I was Charlotte's friend, which was the truth, and how she felt horrible about being so salty towards him—."

"Which was not the truth," I interrupted.

"It is the truth now, retroactively, so it really wasn't a falsehood," she rationalized.

I waved for her to continue.

"I told him how she had been distraught about being assaulted . . ."

"Charlotte was anything but distraught."

"Stop interrupting me! I told him she wanted to . . ."

"Wanted to do what?" I interrupted her without thinking. She looked down again. "Liesl, answer me."

"That she wanted to apologize for her rude behavior, but was too embarrassed to call him herself." Her voice was soft, like that of a child who was being forced to admit she had stolen sweets.

"I then called Charlotte and said he had told you that he wanted to apologize for being so brusque, but, being an American soldier, he thought it would be improper for him to approach her directly to do so."

"Mein Gott, Liesl! You involved me in your silly charade? I can't believe you did such a thing." I shook my head in disbelief, though I could absolutely believe every word of it. "Besides, Americans care little about being improper."

"Well, he's not _really _an American. All I did was arrange for them to meet at the park and the rest is history!" She continued justifying herself. "If it's any consolation to you, I was there for their first meeting. And I was right: They really _are_ perfect for each other. I am proud of myself, if I do say so. They are my best match yet."

"You layered falsehood upon falsehood by your meddling in other people's lives." She gave no rebuttal. Knowing Liesl, she believed she had done nothing wrong given the positive outcome. "This is all so preposterous! And they actually fell for it? Two intelligent adults believed something like a plot derived from an empty headed school girl's poorly written romance novel?"

I shook my head in disgust. I would have given Charlotte and Stegner more credit for intelligence.

"Yes! I'm just waiting for the happily ever after part to arrive."

"No doubt half of Coburg is aware of the news, no?"

"Actually, you are probably the last to know. Papa is already aware of their friendship and he approves. Papa believes him to be a German gentleman of the old school."

"Is Stegner using her, taking advantage of her loneliness due to her widowhood?"

"Oh, Hans! How can you ask such a mean question!"

"I will ask. Now answer my question."

"He is absolutely not taking advantage of her! He has acted as a complete gentleman towards her. Charlotte tells me everything. They've barely held hands. He hasn't even kissed her. Yet."

"'Yet'", I mocked her, imitating her high pitched voice. "I've told you numerous times, Liesl, how men think and how our bodies are wired for one thing. It's not for taking walks in the park with a child as a chaperone. Charlotte is like a sister to me. I do not want her, nor Gregor, to be strung along or hurt by Stegner because he is using her for sex." Liesl opened her mouth to protest, but I wasn't finished yet. "Why didn't you inform me sooner?"

Liesl gave a long sigh. "Because I know how you feel about Americans even though Gerhard is really German." Did anyone think of this man as an American? "He was the enemy you fought against and is part of the occupying forces. I didn't want you to think her being with him was somehow wrong."

My eyes narrowed, a gesture not lost on her. "'Gerhard', huh? You're on a first name basis with him, too?"

She deftly ignored me and continued rattling on. "Oh, Hans! He is such a good man and he treats them so well and Charlotte has been through so much. Charlotte loved Alexander, but . . ." she paused, forcing herself to form the words. "But, he's gone, Hans, like most of the other German men. Is it wrong for her to find happiness with a different man, one of Alexander's equal, so she can move on with her life, to live just a little? Must she lie in his grave, too?"

Left unsaid was that neither Liesl nor I had moved on from the death of our own fiancées.

"There will be no 'happily ever after', Liesl. Stegner will be 'gone', too, when he returns to the United States. He will not be posted here indefinitely. How will his departure impact them when he does leave now that she has become involved with him? It will make his permanent absence much more difficult for them."

"At least she would have had the joy of being alive again, if only for the briefest moment."

"Is the pain and heart ache worth it, for a moment of love which is doomed from the beginning?"

"I would say for you to ask yourself the very same question, Hans, but you already know the answer."

A few weeks later, I came across the three of them again, enjoying ice cream at an outdoor café. It was an extravagant treat for Germans in post-war Coburg, which only Americans with hard currency could afford. Stegner reached out to caress Charlotte's hand with his fingertips for an instant. A warm smile radiated from within her, a melting adoration in her eyes. It was a gaze men daydream about seeing in the eyes of a beautiful woman.

This time I avoided eye contact with him, not wanting to disturb their moment together. Perhaps, just perhaps, sanity was returning to the world and there was hope for what remained of Germany.


	16. Chapter 15

We were splitting wood near the barn, already preparing for the upcoming winter. Summer had not yet arrived, but it would not be long before the coolness of autumn would be upon us. Last year's wood supply had been depleted, but had, thankfully, lasted us until the warmer weather had arrived. Coal remained almost non-existent. Fuel which existed could not be transported far due to the extensive damage to the railroads. My family would need to survive again on what we could gather from the forest.

Kohl and I had resumed our daily routine of gathering wood when the final snows had melted. Last year, the gathering had been relatively easy with a plentiful supply on the ground. This year, it would be more difficult and would necessitate the felling of more trees. The forest was overgrown and needed to be thinned anyway, my father declared. If necessary, we would clear cut the land for its wood to survive.

My work with Kohl was relaxed, with little said between us. The chopping skills forced upon me at the academy had made me proficient with an axe. I rarely needed more than one strike to cleave the wood, with Kohl placing the wood on a stump for me.

The steady rhythm came to an abrupt halt. Focusing on the stump, I teased Kohl, "You're falling down on the job. We're not finished for the day. Place the next piece." When he did not respond, I glanced over at him. He was standing ramrod straight staring past me down the driveway.

"Kohl?" I asked, puzzled at his stance.

"Mein Gott. I don't believe it," he said, his voice a harsh whisper.

Curious, I turned around to look at what had captivated Kohl.

I instantly knew what had fixated Kohl's attention.

Wilhelm Meyer was walking up the driveway as if he owned the world.

Except for the loss of the dark tan, he had not changed in the least. He remained thin and wiry, the blonde hair almost white in its brightness.

He approached, a wicked smirk appearing as he stopped in front of us. "Ah, Dietrich! It does my heart good to see you getting your hands dirty for once. Now you know what it's been like for the rest of us poor people who have to work for a living. How far the mighty have fallen," he said with a chuckle.

"Why are you here, Meyer?" My voice was cold, laced with anger.

"I was in the neighborhood and thought to stop by for a friendly chat. Perhaps catch up on a few things from our days in the Afrika Korps, particularly the final days."

I took a step towards him. "After all you have done, I have nothing to discuss with you, Meyer. Now leave. Get off my land."

"Oh, I don't quite think I'm ready to leave. Besides, you seem to forget none of this humble little abode belongs to you," he waved his arms around, indicating the estate. "It's your father's, remember? And if you want any chance of inheriting it, I would suggest you have that friendly little chat I just suggested."

"You heard, him, Meyer. Leave," Kohl added menacingly.

"It is 'Herr Meyer', to you, Kohl. Have you forgotten your place in life? After all, you are now officially Dietrich's paid lackey, are you not?"

Kohl leaped at Meyer with a curse, but I pulled him back. Meyer appeared amused at Kohl's outburst before he became serious.

"I need to speak with you, Dietrich. In private," he added as he glared at Kohl.

"Say it now, and here. Kohl, stay with us. It would be best if there was someone else present."

"Are you sure you want him here, Dietrich? There are some things best are kept private, just between two friends," Meyer added mysteriously, drawing out the "s", much like a snake.

"You have one minute, Meyer. What do you want?"

"Money. Ten thousand American dollars. Give it to me and I'll leave. You will never hear from me again."

I couldn't help but burst out laughing. "You want me to give you ten thousand dollars? Just like that?"

"Yes, just like that," he said with a grin, snapping his fingers to emphasize the urgency. "I need money to return to the United States. I've decided I don't like it here in Germany and the United States is ripe with opportunity for an ambitious fellow like me."

The gall Meyer possessed was amazing.

"And if I don't give you the money?"

The grin quickly faded from his face to be replaced by a dark ugliness.

"Then I will inform your father that his only son, the golden boy destined to assume his rich mantle is a homosexual heroin addict." A smirk appeared. "You know what a manipulator I am Dietrich. I could talk the panties off a nun. Just to show how serious I am, I'll add how you are also a murderer."

Kohl lunged at Meyer again, wrestling him to the ground. I managed to pull Kohl off of him with difficulty. Meyer brushed down his worn uniform without care, his grin reappearing.

So Meyer knew what had happened. Somehow, Meyer knew everything. He had always had the knack of discovering things. As if reading my mind, he continued.

"I know all about the drugs and the scandalous sex in Ater. I also know you murdered Stuart and Cheri to keep them quiet."

I said nothing, neither confirming nor denying his accusations.

"You see," he continued, warming up to his story. "Guest's assistants, Tristan and Nasir, located my hiding spot before I was forced to surrender to the Amis. They provided details how you had become addicted to heroin, so much so you welcomed Guest's homosexual advances. In fact, when Guest gave you a blow job you came so hard you could be heard from the street. Sucked your dick dry, he did, and left you begging for more."

"You, bastard!" Kohl said in a low, dangerous voice. "How dare you utter such lies!"

"Kohl, it's the truth," Meyer laughed. "A part of me envies you, Dietrich, for what Guest gave you, without you even having to ask."

I sneered at the idea anyone, even one as twisted as Meyer would envy what Guest had forced upon me, and what he had taken from me in the process.

"No one could suck dick like him. I've never had a man satisfy me like he could." Meyer looked at me, smug and knowing. "If Guest was feeling magnanimous, he would reciprocate for what I had done to him."

"Sounds like you participated freely," I said in a low, dangerous voice.

He shrugged. "One does what one must. It was the price Guest demanded to provide heroin when one didn't have any money. At the end of the day, men, women," he waved his hand, "it makes no difference to me. I receive satisfaction both ways."

"Mark my words, Meyer: I will not pay you a pfennig. Not now, not tomorrow, never."

"You always put on airs, Dietrich, how you were so much better than everyone else with you money and ancestry and your powerful daddy. But you aren't. In fact, you're worse because you're such a sham. I always had you pegged as a faggot, even back at the academy. Men who always are chasing pussy actually crave dick."

He stepped closer to me, his face centimeters from mine. "I hate you, Dietrich. I've always hated you. I hate the aristocratic, wealthy, entitlement which hangs around you like stink on shit. Now your world is gone, you'll need to learn to survive just like the rest of us.

"The only thing I regret in life is not seeing you debased by Guest and begging for heroin. You're worse than me, Dietrich. Even I retained enough dignity not to beg."

"Leave, Meyer, and do not return. I never want to see you again."

"As you wish, Dietrich, but you'll never be rid or me, nor Stuart, for that matter. We'll always be a part of you. Everything Stuart offered you is rising to the surface, begging to be fulfilled at this very moment."

It was true. As a fellow addict, he had recognized the signs. The stress was causing the desire for heroin rise within me. I was beginning to perspire and becoming edgy. Tonight, Guest would offer me heroin, but ravage me instead. He would remain in my nightmares until morning not allowing me to forget his visit.

Meyer stopped to address Kohl. "Note, Kohl, Dietrich never denied anything I said."

Meyer called over his shoulder before leaving, "I'll be around Dietrich. I've grown to like Coburg and the surrounding area. You haven't seen the last of me."

We watched Meyer as he returned up the driveway and left the estate.

Kohl turned to me, with tears in his eyes. "Tell me it's not true, Young Dietrich. Tell me all his poison is nothing but lies," Kohl begged.

As much as I wanted to reassure him, I was unable to lie.

I placed my hands on his shoulders. "Part of it is false, but the majority of what he said is true."

It took Kohl a moment to digest my admission. It was obvious he did not know what to say. Finally, he found his voice. "What are you going to do? We both know Meyer well enough to know he will not take no for an answer. The blackmail will never end and he will never leave you in peace."

"I will do as he threatened: I will inform my father."

A look of horror crossed Kohl's face. "You can't be serious! Perhaps, vaguely, remotely your father would accept the drug use, but the other . . . act . . ." Kohl could not form the words to say it . . . "he would never accept such a thing. One of the few things he agreed with the Nazis on was regarding acts of . . ." again, he had difficulty saying the word. Finally, forced it out . . . "homosexuality. There must be another way to end this with Meyer."

"It will never end. I could give him ten times what he is demanding and he will still, eventually, inform my father. It is better for me, rather than Meyer, to tell my father and maintain control of the situation."

I walked briskly to the main house with Kohl trailing me, almost running to keep up with my long strides. If I did not talk to now, I would lose my courage. To not do so would keep me forever in Meyer's grasp.

I walked past Fraulein Rosen, absently returning her greeting. I went straight to my father's study, knowing it was the time of day he handled his correspondence. I softly knocked on the door.

"Enter," announced my father's strong voice.

His face brightened when he saw me. He placed his paperwork aside and came around to greet me, pleasantly surprised. Our relationship had warmed considerably since my apology and we had frequently sought each other's company the last few months. I feared our relationship would again end after my confession, but this time, it would be by his doing.

"Hans Erich! What a pleasant surprise! Pour us a cognac, would you? I prefer how you do so. It's close enough to the end of the day for us to enjoy one."

Dully, I went to the sideboard and did as he requested. After I had handed him his drink, Kohl entered the study, closing the door behind him. One look at Kohl's distraught face was enough for my father to sense something was not right. A look of concern appeared. His gaze traveled between Kohl and myself.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Sir, may I speak with you?"

"Of course." My father indicated a chair and then took the one beside me. "Andreas, does this involve you, also?"

"No, Herr Generalleutnant." Kohl shook his head, unable to make eye contact. "But I wish to remain while Young Dietrich speaks with you."

"As you wish," responded my father, returning his attention to me, waiting for me to speak.

My words were direct. "Sir, I am being blackmailed."

"By whom?" he asked. His voice was so cold, a small part of me felt fear for Meyer's future.

"Hauptmann Wilhelm Meyer."

He thought for a moment before placing the name. "Yes, I remember him. And, what reason does he have to blackmail you?"

I spoke of the dark incident in my life for the first time in over two years.

"There was an incident in North Africa, a few days before the Afrika Korps fell. I was captured by a privateer named Stuart Guest. Meyer had convinced Guest I had colluded with an American commando team to steal, and hide, Nazi gold until after the war.

My father's eyebrows rose slightly at the ridiculousness of the accusation.

"Guest tortured me, attempting to force a confessions where the gold was hidden. The story was, of course, false, but Guest was greedy and believed it was true. He tortured me and the commando leader over several days, becoming desperate towards the end."

"I am truly sorry, Hans. I was aware you had been captured and tortured, but was unaware of the details. I never approached you regarding it since it must have been a very traumatic episode for you. I believed you would share with me the details of what had happened to you, if you felt comfortable enough, and if the timing was right."

I looked downward, knowing my remaining confession must follow.

He paused a moment before continuing. "Has there been a lasting impact of the episode for you?"

"I have severe scarring on my back which no one is allowed to view."

He gently interrupted me. "I meant psychologically."

I ran my hand through my hair, leaving his question unanswered. He already sensed there was more to the capture than what had been shared.

"So far you have told me nothing warranting blackmail."

He waited for me to continue.

"I became a heroin addict during my captivity."

He was silent for several seconds before finding his voice. "I beg your pardon?" he sputtered, not believing what he had heard.

I closed my eyes before repeating myself. "I became a heroin addict."

"I don't understand. How could you have become an addict if you were being held captive?"

"Guest administered the opiate to sedate me and to prevent me from escaping. The doses were strong and it took me only a few days to become addicted. At the end, I craved heroin and welcomed its administration."

A familiar look was on his face, the look which had always appeared when he thought I was weak. "You sound like you enjoyed it."

"I did, very much so," I admitted. "Heroin provided the escape I had been seeking for my entire life."

He remained silent, knowing what I was trying to escape. A thought struck him. "My God! Tell me you did not use it when in combat, when commanding men whose lives depended on you making clear-headed decisions."

"I did not, although I craved it during, and after combat, when the reality of death was overwhelming."

"Hans, there is nothing of this earth which could numb death."

I nodded. My affirmation appeased him somewhat before he continued.

"Where are you currently procuring it? Here, in Coburg?"

I gave a bitter laugh. "I have not used it since my escape, though, the desire for it remains within me."

"Is Meyer blackmailing you regarding the heroin? Threatening to expose you about using drugs while an officer?"

I hesitated before answering. "His blackmail is regarding something else, predicated by the heroin."

My father looked at me. "What more could there be?"

I saw the pained look on Kohl's face. He looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

"Guest realized physical torture was not working. To force me into betraying the commando, he withheld the opiate."

My father waited, but I was unable to form the words.

"Hans?" he said, encouraging me.

I met his eyes and told him.

"To further torture me, Guest performed a homosexual act on me. Meyer is blackmailing me regarding this encounter."

My father dropped his glass. It broke, spilling its contents onto the heavy rug. His face became ghostly white and hard as stone.

"What type of 'act'?" His voice was barely above a harsh whisper.

"He performed fellatio on me." Using the formal word "fellatio" sounded worse than if I had merely said oral sex or even "a blow job".

"What did you do to stop his deviant act?"

"I was tied to a chair and half-crazed from the heroin withdrawal. It was impossible for me to stop or to resist him."

"Resist?" he repeated. "Are you saying you enjoyed it?"

"Any man's body would begin responding if stimulated long enough. Do you want to know all the filthy details?" I leapt to my feet, my hands balled into fists. Kohl stepped closer, ready to intervene if we became physical.

"No, I do not."

There was a heavy silence in the room for several minutes. It was my father who spoke first.

"Did you betray the Allied commando?"

My breathing was heavy, strained. "No. Guest knew I would never talk at that point. He was going to give both of us an overdose the following morning, but I killed him beforehand. I then escaped, taking the commando with me. I returned him to his team, before returning to my own unit." I gave a bitter laugh. "Ironically, he was the same American commando who would save me when I was dying."

My father rose suddenly and took a step towards me.

"There is no more I wish to say." I turned from him and went to the mantle, gripping it in my hands to keep me upright. The exchange had drained me, both mentally and physically.

My father walked across the room to stand in front of me. A wave of emotions crossed his face and now his hands were clenched into fists.

I braced myself for the expected blow.

Instead, he placed his arms around me and drew me to him. He held me close for several seconds and there were tears in his eyes when he released me.

"My son, what did you endure in the name of Reich?"

I closed my eyes. It took me a few minutes for me to answer.

"I endured monsters who I did not know existed in the world. The worst kind of monsters. Those who look like men."


	17. Chapter 16

My sleep was shallow and fitful. My subconscious knew Guest was baiting me, forcing me to wait as to when he would visit me.

It was past midnight when he fulfilled his promise and arrived in my nightmare.

I found myself tied face down on my bed. I heard the door open before it was locked and bolted behind the intruder. Soon my room was filled with the nauseating stench of Guest's cologne. There was a rustle of clothing hitting the floor before he joined me on the bed.

"Hello Captain," said the familiar cheerful voice. "Willy has already had the pleasure of visiting you this afternoon. I was rather jealous he saw you before I did, but now it's my turn. To make up for it, I have an extra special visit in store for you. You've had a very rough day. I've brought some heroin for you to enjoy, a rather nice grade of purity. But your pleasure comes after mine."

He began stroking my back, his hands tracing the scars. I shuddered at his touch, hating it, but unable to stop him.

"Stop struggling, darling. Lay back and relax. Enjoy what I'm doing. The torture was necessary, Captain, to bring you under my control. You know, I will always control you, in body and mind. Don't even think about visiting one of those funny head doctors, like that American Braddock, to get rid of me. He doesn't stand a chance against my power."

Guest paused a moment, his hands beginning to caress the rest of my body. "You are still a beautiful man, even if the sight of your back is nauseating. No woman or man would ever want you after they get a look at its grotesqueness. But to me, it's beautiful. It shows how I have marked you as my own. Always, now and forever."

"The heroin," I begged. The cravings were tearing me apart. "Give it to me."

He gave a hearty laugh. "I lied. I didn't bring any. Shall I begin?"

I woke up in mid-scream, lighting flashing across the room, followed by thunder. I sat up in the bed, drenched in a cold sweat, breathing heavily. I looked around, but Guest was gone. Even the scent of his cologne had dissipated. Thank God, no one else was in the guest house to hear my screams.

I wiped my face with my hand. My heart was still pounding. I glanced at the clock. It was a little past 02:00. My nightmare had lasted for over two hours.

I threw back the bedclothes and staggered to a sideboard. With a shaky hand, I poured myself a stiff brandy and shot it down. The first was soon followed by a second.

I took a shower, using up my remaining sliver of soap which barely lathered in the icy water. As in the desert the day I had killed him, I wanted nothing less than scalding hot water to cleanse Guest from my body. There was now, just as there was none then. But no amount of hot water or soap would ever cleanse me of his filth.

I stepped out and shaved, attempting to bring back some feeling of normalcy. Feeling calmer, I laid down to rest the few hours before dawn.

I had just turned out the light when the sound of automobile tires crunching through the gravel of driveway caught my attention. A sharp whine of their brakes signified that they had stopped in front of the guest house. I looked out the windows, barely moving the drapes aside. The angle was too sharp for me to determine either the make of the automobiles or who was driving them.

A knock on the door soon followed. I pulled on trousers and an oversized sweater, not bothering with an undershirt or shoes. I grabbed the Walther from the drawer, confirming it was loaded before arming it. I went down the stairs with the weapon ready.

"Bitte?" I asked in a low voice towards the door. I stood off to the side, prepared in case the door was kicked or shot in.

"Major Dietrich, it is Major Stegner. Open the door."

I was relieved to hear his voice. I silently disarmed the weapon, before slipping it into the back of my waistband, and hiding it under the loose folds of the sweater.

I unlocked the door to find Stegner with two American soldiers standing behind him, their weapons at ready. There was no mistaking their stance. They were here for a serious matter.

"What do you want, Major?" I asked. "It is rather early in the morning for visitors."

"I need you to identify a dead German soldier who has been found in an alley."

No, Stegner was not here for a friendly house call as a fellow German. His firm and formal tone indicated he was here representing the American military police.

"I can assure you, Major, I do not know all the German soldiers who served in the Wehrmacht. Now if you will excuse me, good night." I started to close the door when he prevented me from doing so.

"The dead soldier was wearing an Afrika Korps officer's uniform. I'll step inside while you finish getting dressed," he informed me, instead of asking.

"As you wish," I said, opening the door wider. He stepped in to stand in the entryway, but ordered the other two soldiers to remain outside.

"Am I under arrest?" My words held no fear.

His eyes met mine. "No, it is as I stated: I need you to identify the dead soldier." He hesitated before continuing. "I want to warn you, Dietrich, it could be serious for you. Now is not the time to do anything foolish. Get rid of the weapon you have on you. It would be suicide to bring it with you."

"It's obvious you have never lived in a police state, Stegner. If you had, you would know midnight visitors do not bode well. It is best to answer the door prepared."

His face was blank. He had given me as much warning as he dared.

"Allow me a moment." I soon returned after pulling on shoes and a coat. The Walther had been returned to its hiding spot in the closet.

"Let's get it over with, Stegner."

We walked out into a pouring rain. He indicated one of the automobiles and I climbed into the back seat. Stegner soon joined me along with another soldier, forcing me into the middle. The second soldier climbed behind the wheel and we left, the other automobile following us.

They drove to a darker side of Coburg, an area known for its roughness and unlawful residents, even before the war. The automobile stopped at the entrance to a narrow alley, blocked off at both ends by the military police. Half-way down, there was a dark shadow on the ground, slumped against a wall. Policemen guarded it.

"Over here," Stegner directed and we approached the body. He waved the other police away so it was just the two of us.

He shined a torch at the man's face. "Do you know him?"

I stared at the dead man without emotion, just one more of the countless bodies seen over six years of war. Another corpse made no difference, especially not this one.

The man's eyes were open, glassy and staring up into nothing. Rain pelted his face. The uniform was worn, but identifiable as Afrika Korps. The left sleeve was rolled up, the arm exposed to the air. A rubber strap was wrapped around the upper forearm, an expended syringe remained inserted into a vein. Foam and vomit had gathered at the corners of his mouth. It all added up to an apparent overdose.

"The man was Hauptmann Wilhelm Meyer."

Stegner's face remained blank. "Your confirmation matches his pay book and identity papers."

"If you had already identified him, why was it necessary for me to also do so?" The annoyance was obvious in my voice. Not just at being dragged out in the middle of a miserable night, but at the knowledge Stegner obviously had an ulterior motive.

"I wanted to see if you would deny knowing him."

"And? Since I did not, may I leave?" My request was made with exaggerated politeness.

I started to walk away. Stegner stopped me by placing his hand on my forearm. It was too soon after my intense nightmare with Guest to be touched by another man, even an innocent gesture.

I jerked my arm away, glaring at him.

"Don't touch me," I ordered Stegner. "Don't ever touch me again."

Startled, he immediately took a step back. The mask of professionalism fell back into place.

"You are free to leave after you answer one more question regarding Meyer. Do you notice anything odd about his body?"

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Everything is odd about Meyer. In death, as in life."

He indicated for me to look. I crouched down next to the body, scanning it, focusing on his exposed left arm. It took me only a few seconds to realize what was wrong.

I looked up. "May I touch the body?"

"Go ahead. We've already taken photographs and searched the area. We have what we need."

Meyer's body was noticeably cool, but it had been a cold evening and the rain would have cooled the body further. It made it difficult to confirm how long Meyer had been dead.

I unbuttoned his right shirt cuff and pushed the sleeve up, exposing his inner arm. Among the old scars were fresh red welts, indicating recent injections. So, Meyer had been able to procure heroin in Coburg after being here for only a short time. I made a mental note: The drug was available locally if I became desperate for it in the future.

I compared Meyer's two arms. There was only the single injection site on the left. My hypothesis was confirmed.

"Meyer was left handed. It is unlikely he would inject himself with his off hand. The marks show he had previously, and very recently, injected himself in his other arm," I explained, indicating the numerous marks on his right arm. "There is only the single injection on his left arm. Another thing: The angle of the syringe is as if someone else was injecting him. The angle would be different if he was injecting himself." I thought for a moment. "But, he could have requested someone to perform the injection for him."

Once, just once, I had witnessed Guest inject himself. He had believed the dose prepared for me too large. Concerned about me overdosing before he had received the information he had sought, he had injected me with only a portion of the drug before administering the remainder to himself. At the time I had found the act eerily intimate. I had watched him with a strange fascination as he had taken the same syringe and slipped it into his own body.

Clearly recalling it now, I found the memory disgusting.

Stegner looked at me, his eyes intent as he listened to my explanation. Never once did he ask exactly how I knew so much about heroin usage. I appreciated his restraint as much as he undoubtedly appreciated my ill gained expertise.

I pushed down Meyer's sleeve and re-buttoned it, returning the body to how it was before. I stood and looked at Stegner, waiting to see if he wanted anything else.

"Okay, let's go Dietrich."

I turned and left, not bothering to look at Meyer again.

Stegner waved off the driver, and slid into his seat. He motioned for me to get into the passenger seat, and we left as the dawn was breaking.

Only a few American military vehicles shared the road with us. Petrol was severely rationed and few Germans had the means to obtain it.

We were out in the open countryside when Stegner turned down a small unpaved road leading into a forest. He drove several meters before stopping and turning off the engine. We were surrounded by trees and would be unseen from the main road.

Suspicious, I asked "What is the reason for us stopping, Stegner?"

"I have several questions for you, Dietrich. Difficult ones you wouldn't want me asking in front of others."

He didn't waste any time before firing off his questions.

"You had just showered and shaved when we arrived. Why at such an hour?"

"Have the Americans made it illegal to shower and shave at certain times?"

"No, but it was an unusual time to do so. Just answer me."

"I had had a nightmare and thought showering would relax me." It was a partial lie, but close enough to the truth.

"And the brandy? It's a little early to be drinking."

"Or a little late. But, regardless, same reason. Look, Stegner, what do you want from me?"

"Those are common actions when someone has committed a murder. The shower is to clean off the evidence and the drink is to steady the nerves."

"You believe I murdered Meyer?" If the situation hadn't been so serious, it would be amusing.

"Did you?"

I snorted. "No."

"Who else would have had the motive to murder Meyer?"

I burst out laughing at his question. "Most of Germany. Men, women, young, old, Wehrmacht, non-Wehrmacht. It would be easier to list those who did not have a motive to murder him than those who did."

"And where do you land in the listing?"

I became serious, my laughter gone. My silence answered Stegner's question.

In response, Stegner's questions were sharp and quick, demanding immediate answers.

"Meyer was seen in several bars the last few days, telling anyone who would listen how he knew you. When was the last time you saw Meyer?"

"Yesterday, in the early afternoon."

"Where?"

"At our estate."

"Before then?"

"April 1943, in Tunisia, a few days before the surrender of the Afrika Korps."

"Then not again until yesterday?"

"Correct. He was captured and sent to an American POW camp."

"Yesterday, when he visited, was it for money?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand American dollars."

He gave a low whistle. "That's not chump change. Doesn't sound like he was looking for a handout as a fellow soldier down on his luck needing help. Blackmail?"

I hesitated before answering. "Yes."

He raised his eyebrows at the frankness of my answer. "What did he have on you? Must be something big."

Deflecting his question, I countered with one of my own. "You already knew Meyer was left-handed, didn't you?"

"Yes. He had a callous on his left hand from writing. He also carried his wallet and papers in the opposite pocket of someone who was right handed."

"They teach you that in law school?"

It was Stegner's turn to laugh. "No, there was an old gumshoe detective who worked for our law office, one of the best around. I picked up a quite a few basic essentials from him over the years, including how drug users inject. What about you? They teach you that in a military academy?"

"I witnessed it in Africa." Well, it _was_ the truth.

Truth or not, it did not hold Stegner off for long.

"There was animosity between you and Meyer. There's something underneath the surface here, Dietrich, something major. What is it?"

I said nothing, staring out the window, watching the rain fall.

"You can relax, Dietrich, I know you didn't kill him."

"Your questions indicate otherwise."

"You knew Meyer well enough that he was left handed. You would not have made the mistake of injecting him in the incorrect arm. Also, you could have easily made his body disappear. With the size of your estate, the grave could have remained undetected indefinitely."

I maintained my silence, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"You may trust me, Dietrich, as a fellow officer and a German. I am not trying to trap you."

His face was open and honest. I released my breath and placed my trust in him.

"We attended the academy together, graduating in 1934. There was an instant dislike between us. Anger and jealously consumed him as I possessed a background and lifestyle he had always craved but was denied by birth."

Stegner drew out a pack of cigarettes and shook out two, offering me one. I lit both cigarettes with my lighter. His eyes lingered on it, before he tossed the cigarettes on the dash. The rain had stopped and I rolled down the window to allow the smoke to escape.

I drew heavily on the cigarette.

"His jealously escalated over the years. My senior year, I was almost expelled when Meyer planted evidence against me at the site of a lecture hall explosion."

He raised his eyebrows. "Damn, Dietrich! An explosion? That's pretty serious. How did you get out of it?"

I gave a wry grin. "What would you expect? My father bought me out of it, of course."

"I knew your family was rich, but that rich?"

I gave a short laugh. "Richer." The laughter died within me.

"His acts against me continued through the years. He assaulted my sister and was the cause of her fiancée, Ellery, being killed."

"How?"

"Combat had been fierce and Ellery was cut off. Meyer's unit was ordered in as reinforcements, but instead, they went to a different quadrant. Ellery and his entire unit were obliterated. I returned to the battlefield hours later and found him. I was there when he died . . ." My voice trailed off.

I drew heavily on the cigarette, smoking it down to the end. I threw the butt out the window. Stegner indicated the pack and I lit a second cigarette.

"Your accusation is serious for any army. Did you pursue it?"

"I did. Our superiors had suspicions, but there was no evidence. Meyer was transferred and I received my promotion to Hauptmann. Later, his command in the desert deteriorated and I was ordered to assume it. He never forgot any of these perceived slights, all of which were actually of his own doing."

As I chain smoked, I told Stegner everything. All the sordid details were shared, including the ones I could not share with my father. Stegner listened, not interrupting me.

Finished, I looked at him. "Now you know my dirty little secrets, Stegner."

He remained silent for a moment, thinking. "So Guest's henchmen somehow find Meyer and inform him of your addiction and the homosexual act. Meyer survives the war, seeks you out and attempts to blackmail you with the information, correct? And, your father didn't know what had happened to you?

"No. I informed him after Meyer left."

"Who else knows?"

"Andreas Kohl, our stable master."

Stegner's brow furrowed. "How can you possibly have any horses?"

"We don't and haven't for years. He served under my father during the Great War. My father gave him a job due to his loyalty and hard work."

I stared out the window. "The nightmare I had right before you arrived was of Guest. I needed the shower to cleanse me of his filth and the brandy served to steady my nerves. There was nothing more to my actions."

I turned to face him, expecting disgust, but there was none.

"What was it like?" he asked in a curious voice.

"The heroin or the blow job from a man?"

"The heroin. I've already had a man give me a blow job."

His words shocked me.

He noticed my surprise and gave a bitter laugh. "You're not the only one who doesn't have nicely starched skirts, Dietrich. I suppose my skirts are dirtier since I've willingly taken drugs and had sex with a man."

"You? The uptight, perfect German?" I scoffed.

"It's true. I've done both."

Now it was his turn to reach for the cigarettes to calm the dark memories.

"My parents were good, hard-working people, but they expected much from me. I was raised to be better than native born Americans, to show them we really were true-blue Americans with no loyalty to the 'old country'.

"As their only child, they were very strict with me. No shame or dishonor could fall on the family. I was not allowed to attend dances, and my social activities limited to only strict Lutheran church events.

"My parents couldn't afford to send me to college. I was fortunate to earn a scholarship. It didn't take me long to realize I didn't fit in with the other students. There I was, in my too short trousers and my hand made plaid shirts, stinking of kraut, potatoes and rural American farm shit. I was embarrassed of my accent and did everything possible to lose it. During the summers, when other students vacationed for months in Europe with pretty girls, I went home and milked cows and shoveled pig shit.

"I went wild when away at college. I was finally able to experience all the things which had been forbidden. I took up smoking and drinking, and discovered women. Boy, did I ever make up for lost time with all three of them. It wasn't until law school I was introduced to coke."

"Do you mean cocaine?"

"Yes. My wealthy roommate introduced me to it. I was so naïve I thought he meant Coca-Cola when he first offered me some. The drug was great, and the energy it gave me! Using it, I could study all night and go to class the next day, and not feel tired in the slightest. And the sex! Mein Gott! You could bang away at a girl all night if she was up to it.

"I proceeded to snort it throughout law school, but I didn't allow it to impact my grades. I always pulled top marks, at the top of my class, made Law Review, the whole deal."

Stegner lit another cigarette with the butt of his first, chain-smoking.

"I barely had pocket money for cigarettes, let alone drugs. First, I bummed it from my roommate, then I began writing papers for other students for money. Actually, I built up quite a clientele over two years."

He looked out the window for a few seconds before continuing. "Our final semester in law school, my roommate decided to celebrate his birthday in style. He hired a couple of hookers and we drove out to a mountain cabin his family owned. We were all drunk and tight on drugs. We pretty much fucked the brains out of the girls the first night, until they passed out.

"My friend and I were still horny. The alcohol had lowered our inhibitions, the coke gave us the energy to continue. One thing led to another and we turned to each other for pleasure, each of us blowing the other. The final vestige of my instilled stiff German code of conduct slipped away in the privacy of the mountains. Releasing it was actually a very liberating experience, freeing me to enjoy something pleasurable, although sinful, at least from how I had been raised."

He paused, drawn to the past, before giving a grin. "I'd never been so hard in my life; it was almost painful. I remember thinking at the time: What would my German parents say if they knew what I was doing? I didn't care. I never wanted the sex with my friend to end. And it didn't. We had sex multiple times throughout the weekend.

"On the drive back, though, things changed. We had sobered up from the coke and liquor, and were ashamed by what we had done. After the weekend, we both gave up drugs. Since then, I've had no desire to be with another man again, and I haven't."

He stared out the windshield. "You're the only person I've ever confided this to, Dietrich. The guy is still one of my best friends although the weekend is something we've never discussed. He's married now, with a family. He's one of the sharpest lawyers I've ever come across. No doubt he'll be on the federal bench someday."

He looked down, his eyes unable to meet mine. "Charlotte is unaware of any of this." He hesitated before continuing. "I love her and Gregor and do not want to lose them for an act that happened over a decade ago."

"It was a private matter between two consenting adults which happened long ago, Stegner. There is no reason to inform her, or anyone else, of it unless you choose to do so. And, that will be your choice alone."

He reached again for the cigarette pack, but it was empty. The two of us had smoked through it during our conversation. He crumpled it and threw it on the dash.

"Your lighter? May I see it?"

I pulled it out and handed it to him.

"Beautiful workmanship." His finger traced the name engraved unto it. "'James Lyon?'" he asked with raised eyebrows. "English?"

"Yes. Would you believe me if I told you he gave it to me shortly before I was going to perform a mercy killing on him at Jufra?"

"Actually, I would believe you." Respect appeared on his face. "Did you?"

"No, he died the moment before I was to pull the trigger. You are the only one I have confided in about how I acquired the lighter. Several have asked, but I have always kept it private."

"You are a man of many layers, Dietrich. A good man." He started the automobile and roughly shifted it into reverse. "You know, I've never discussed my personal life with anyone. Let's leave."

Stegner did not speak until we returned to the estate.

"I will continue to pursue Meyer's murderer. There are many who possessed the motive to kill him. But my time is growing short here, Dietrich. If I don't find the killer soon, no one probably ever will."

The Americans' interest in Meyer's murder soon waned. There were other crimes to be solved, more important ones than the murder of a disliked Wehrmacht soldier addicted to an illegal drug. The Americans concentrated on the crimes which were committed against their own, and they were beginning to increase in frequency.

Despite the Americans' disinterest in the matter, Coburg's citizens gossiped about the murder for weeks. They were shocked and fascinated by it. They were aghast at the idea of illegal opiate use in such a heavily religious city. Many believed it to be a drug underworld killing. Others still believed the crime was linked to the Americans who must have brought the drugs to Coburg along with all their other vices. They did not want to believe the depravity of drugs, and those who used them, had been present all along. Regardless, the majority believed Meyer had received what he had deserved as punishment for the sin of addiction.

I paid for Meyer's interment. As much as I had despised the man and the difficulties he had caused me, I believed all human beings deserved a decent burial. He had once been a German officer and a loving mother's son. No mother should find her only child buried in an unmarked pauper's grave.

Stegner and I were the only ones to attend Meyer's burial. We stood over the grave, watching the coffin as it was lowered, and stayed until it had been covered with earth. I never visited the grave again, but I ensured over the years it was maintained.

Later, my wife would have compassion for the unvisited grave and the wretched soul which rested there. She would place flowers on it when we were in Coburg, an act which would have amused Meyer.

I did not discuss Meyer's death with anyone, including Stegner, ever again. At home, it was understood Meyer's death was something not to be mentioned. Although Stegner was frequently at the estate afterwards, he did not interview my father or Kohl, who were two among the many who had possessed a strong motive for the murder.

Personally, I always believed it was Kohl who had murdered Meyer, out of loyalty to the family. Likely, he had acted alone, without my father's knowledge. I believe that if my father had ordered the killing, it would have been handled differently. The body would have never been found. Who would have questioned a German soldier disappearing one day when all of Germany was in flux? Leaving the body lacked finesse, too crass of a statement for a man such as he.

As for Kohl, he would have had a different motive. He would have wanted the body to be found. As a warning to anyone who dared threaten the family, especially me.

Had Kohl confessed his crime to my father?

Probably. Forever loyal to my father for saving his life in the Great War and for providing him with a home, Kohl would have sought him out for absolution.

I never asked either of them. I did not want to know.


	18. Chapter 17

I don't know what is worse: Not having anything to eat, or thinking about having nothing to eat.

The ration coupons provided little for us since there was little available to purchase. The majority of the food we had available was what we had grown from the prior year. No matter how creatively Fraulein Rosen prepared the vegetables, the menu was monotonous. We had little choice but to accept the Spartan diet. The garden and fruit trees would not produce for weeks.

We were having a lively conversation at supper one night, when Liesl put down her fork and abruptly left. She had eaten little, mostly pushing her food around, without participating in the discussion. It was completely unlike her.

When I found her, she was on the terrace, looking across the gangly weeds which passed for the lawn.

"I hate turnips, Hans. I've hated them since I was a child." Her voice was simple and matter-of-fact."

"I don't believe they are anyone's favorite, Liesl, but we are fortunate to have them. Many have nothing."

"I am grateful, but I still hate them. I hate them even more now since there is little else available. I try to pretend they are something else, but I fail miserably each time." She continued looking out over the estate before announcing, "I stopped menstruating."

"You will begin again once the food situation improves. The condition should not be permanent."

"But what if it isn't? I very much wanted to have children someday." She continued staring out across the lawn. "I wish I had become pregnant by Ellery."

I glanced at her.

"You cannot be surprised regarding our intimacy, just because I am your sister and he was your best friend."

"No, I am not." It was now my turn to look out over the grounds. "I'm glad you were able to share something beautiful with him. He was a good man."

She began crying softly. I pulled her towards me to comfort her.

"If I had borne his child," she said into my chest, "at least then I would have more than just empty memories. Words can't describe how much I miss Ellery! I loved him very much and I hurt terribly with him gone. I am happy for Charlotte, yet jealous she has been able to move on and find a man of Alexander's equal. I don't believe the same fortune will bless me."

I took a moment to reflect upon my own losses which had been dealt by the cruel hand of war.

Then, I offered her the only comfort and advice I could, as hypocritical as it might be.

"You are young, Liesl. You must maintain hope and faith for the future."

I escorted her back to the house before making my way to the small chapel on the grounds. It was one of the oldest buildings on the estate and was always kept unlocked. My mother wanted to ensure it would be available at any time for anyone who should need comfort within its walls. She herself visited it daily to recite the rosary and to replace the altar flowers and greens with fresh ones from the garden or greenhouse.

In my anger and bitterness, I had not visited it since my return. I paused before entering, not knowing what to feel. My visit should have been months ago, to offer thanksgivings for my family and my life. Instead, I was here to pray for a request.

How typical of God's self-centered creations.

I entered the dark building and touched my fingers into the font of holy water. I lit a few candles. The stained glass windows were dark, a reflection of the blackness outside. I sat for a few minutes in a rear pew before pulling out one of small embroidered cushions. I knelt.

Bowing my head, my prayers began in a whisper, the words flowing from my lips. I again expressed my gratitude to God for delivering my family and its extended members, the estate and myself safely from the war. I prayed for His continued graciousness in the future, to provide me the knowledge and means to provide enough food for our survival.

The warm glow of His presence engulfed me, confirming my desperate plea had been heard. I left the building, knowing He would provide for us.

I had prayed to God to deliver me food, but God apparently had no food.

In His mysterious ways, He sent me Virginia tobacco in its place.

It was in the late afternoon the following day when Kohl came running after me.

"Young Dietrich, two crates were delivered for you. I have them down in the stables."

I frowned, not expecting any deliveries. "Crates? Are you positive they weren't mis-delivered? Perhaps they are actually for my father?"

"No, your name is on the labels, clear as day. They're nice size crates, too." He spread his hands wide. "I wonder what's in them!"

"Who are they from?"

"No name was listed, but," Kohl glanced around, to ensure we were alone. "They're from America, Young Dietrich!"

The United States? What American would be sending me a crate, let alone two, and for what reason? I had not been in contact with any of my American friends since the early 1940's, before America entered the war. They had faded away, perhaps from a sense of patriotic loyalty or from the more realistic belief I had been killed.

"What do suppose is in them?" Kohl repeated, his face eager, like a young child on his birthday who was about ready to open his presents.

I shrugged. "Why did you place them in the barn? You did not want my family, particularly my father, to be aware of them?"

Kohl gave me a wink. "I thought it best for the moment, Young Dietrich. He can always be informed later, at the right moment, if need be."

I returned his wink with a grin. "Well, then let's see what they contain, shall we?"

"Perhaps there's something inside to eat," Kohl said hopefully, as we started off to the stables.

Kohl had locked the crates in the far tack room, where they sat in the middle. He had not exaggerated: The crates were large, but emitted a soft, pungent smell. It was familiar, but I could not place it.

I ran my hand over the return address. There was no name, but the American state was listed as Virginia. Hope rose within me.

Keaton was from Virginia.

Kohl soon appeared with a crowbar. We would know soon enough what they contained.

Kohl pried the lids off and placed them aside. Attached to the underside of one of them was a letter. My name was written across it in elaborate script.

We peered inside the crate to see stacks of bags. Kohl took one out. He opened it and poured the contents into his palm. Disappointment was written across his face.

"Doesn't look very appetizing, does it?"

He was about to throw it aside when I bust out laughing. Looking up at the ceiling, I offered thanks to God for answering my prayers so quickly.

"No Kohl, it is not very appetizing for us to eat. But for the American soldiers, they will believe it is manna from heaven and will give almost anything to possess it."

"What is it? Why would the Amis want to eat it, even as crazy as they are?"

"Because, Kohl, what we have sitting in front of us is chewing tobacco from the American southern state of Virginia."

I opened the letter and began reading it.

_"My Dear Mr. Dietrich,_

_"My brother, Doctor Joseph Keaton, mentioned there is a current interest in your city for American tobacco products. I have sent you a few samples to enjoy._

A few? There was enough to last me for over a year. I continued reading.

_If you should see fit, perhaps there are others in your area who would also enjoy the samples. Perhaps the local American soldiers stationed in the vicinity? I am positive they would enjoy sampling the fresh tobacco compared to the dried out tobacco procured for their use by the American government._

_"Keep in mind what was sent to you are samples, and not for official resell. Reselling would mean they would be marked with a tax stamp, which these are not, since they were sent directly as a gift. I trust you understand me clearly and will be careful with the samples._

_"My brother also mentioned that there are members of your family who are gardening enthusiasts. I have enclosed a few packets of seeds which should do well in your climate."_

"Kohl, there should be some seeds."

"Flower seeds?"

He rummaged around and came up with a box tied with string. He cut the twine. Nestled inside the box were dozens of packets of vegetable seeds. I would give them to my mother and make some excuse about acquiring them.

I returned to the letter.

_"In closing, I have also included a bottle of spring water bottled on our plantation. I hope you will find it to your liking. Mind you, it is for medicinal purposes only. I have a glass every afternoon to help ward off malaria and other mosquito borne diseases. I have been well since I began partaking of it, not suffering even from the slightest head cold."_

_"Do inform me how the tobacco is received. If desired, I can send you additional samples. I look forward to our continued correspondence in the future."_

_"Your obedient servant,_

_"Matthew Lee Keaton"_

_P.S. There is additional spring water available if you are concerned of an upcoming epidemic of typhoid._

Odd. Why would he send a bottle of spring water? "Check the crates again, Kohl. A bottle of spring water was also sent."

"Is the water to be sprinkled on the seeds? Like magic beans, eh?" he asked with a grin.

"He says it is for medicinal purposes."

Kohl frowned and rummaged around until he found a smaller wooden box. He pried off the lid and nestled within the sawdust was a long neck bottle filled with a clear liquid. Puzzled, Kohl handed it to me.

"Looks like a liquor bottle, Young Dietrich. Perhaps it was the only one he had on hand to fill with the spring water?"

I pulled out the cork and went to taste when the fumes hit me, causing my eyes to water. Even from a few meters away, Kohl crinkled his nose.

"I don't believe it is spring water, Young Dietrich." Kohl stopped me before I could drink any. "Do you believe it wise to drink it? The home-made stuff can kill you if it is distilled incorrectly."

"If an Ami bullet couldn't kill me, then their whiskey won't, either. How strong could it possibly be?" I waved him aside and took a deep draught. It burned my throat and hit my stomach hard. I began coughing, forcing myself to keep the liquid down and not vomit.

Mein Gott! In all my years of hard drinking, I had never tasted anything like it. To say it was strong would be an understatement.

Kohl beamed. "You're such a lightweight when it comes to American whiskey, Young Dietrich. Hand it over to a seasoned professional," he said as he tapped his chest for emphasis. He took the bottle while I was still coughing. Upending it, he drank deeply. He soon began choking on the burning liquid. I patted him on the back, to settle him.

"That's good stuff," he finally croaked in a hoarse voice. "One could use it as battery acid or as paint remover." He gave a few more coughs. "I take it the 'spring water' is to go on the list of things not to tell your father?"

I nodded my assent between my own coughs and corked the bottle.

"All in good time, Kohl," I managed to stammer.

Kohl grinned. "Well, then, if we're going to keep the spring water private, why don't we step into the privacy of my office so we can enjoy it properly?"

It was the last thing I remembered before waking up on the hard floor in Kohl's apartment above the stables.

I pried my eyes open only to be met with the sight of the room spinning around me. The bright light glared through the window, causing me to squint and my head to pound harder. I forced my body upright, steadying myself with a chair.

Nearby, there was a deep snoring. Kohl was passed out on the bed, his mouth wide open, the loud sound emitting from him. Nausea rose within me, and I staggered to the bathroom, my head pounding. Barely making it to the toilet, I vomited up the little bile remaining in my stomach. The stench of liquor filled the small room. Returning my stare from the mirror was the image of the drunken cadet I had been in my academy days, and after a night of hard partying.

I was too old for this.

I threw some cold water on my face and neck before returning unsteadily to the other room. I opened the windows wide to admit the morning air before turning Kohl on his side in case he should also vomit.

I retched a few more times returning to my residence. I managed to take a shower and shave, before noticing the time. Almost noon! Impossible. Breakfast had been missed, but lunch would be served soon in the main house.

The nausea and my pounding head had ensured I had no appetite. I ate little, picking at my food. Meals were always lively in our house, with discussions ranging from politics to the arts. Today, there was nothing but complete silence. My family looked at me, giving each other small nudges when they thought I wouldn't notice. Schnass appeared amused. Unsurprisingly, Kohl did not appear for the meal.

With the nausea again rising within me, I excused myself, believing it best to sleep it off in private instead of vomiting at the table. Liesl soon caught up with me.

"What was going on last night with you and Andreas, Hans? Mein Gott! How much did the two of you drink? The singing reached us in the main house and our rooms are in the back! All of Coburg probably heard you two."

"Singing?" I croaked. Liesl's voice sounded louder than normal and reverberated inside my head. I motioned for her to speak in a softer voice, wanting nothing more than to go to bed for the next week.

"Yes, singing! Beerhall songs, Nazi marching songs, army songs from both world wars. You two sang a mixture of Allied and German songs with a few Bolshevik songs thrown in for good measure. Many of them had unmentionable lyrics. Papa was about to put an end to it when the two of you finally shut up at around three in the morning. Or more likely, passed out."

"Leave me, Liesl."

I managed to make it to my room, collapsing on the bed, not bothering to remove my clothes. Kohl did not make an appearance until late in the afternoon. It was obvious he possessed the same raging hangover as myself.

"That's the last time I'm drinking spring water bottled by a Keaton brother, Young Dietrich. No wonder his brother has never been ill. His moonshine would kill the plague or malaria on contact. The doctor probably gave him the recipe for it."

I pushed Kohl's comments aside, my mind finally clear. There were more important things requiring my focus.

"We have work to do, Kohl, regarding the tobacco. We best begin."

"Must you speak so loudly, Young Dietrich?" He forced his eyes to focus on me. "And who do you mean by 'We'? Do you have a mouse in your pocket?"

"Might I remind you it was your idea to hide the crates?"

He considered my rebuttal. "True. Okay, what work do you have in mind?"

"We will work to turn the tobacco into food, Kohl. Trust me. There is nothing that could go wrong."

His eyes narrowed. "Whenever someone says 'Nothing could go wrong', it is a guarantee for a spectacular disaster."

"If you have doubts, or lack the fortitude. . ." I spread my hands in mock despair. "I can always go it alone, although the Amis can be dangerous and unpredictable when approached, especially regarding the black market," I bluffed, shaking my head and walking away. He soon caught up with me.

"I have never failed you, Young Dietrich, and will not do so at this time." His eyes brightened. "With the two of us, it's bound to succeed. Now, how about sharing your great idea with your partner?"


	19. Chapter 18

"Young Dietrich, I don't know if this is a very good idea," Kohl said, walking slower and slower and frequently stopping. I almost had to drag him along the sidewalk. Kohl had changed from an enthusiastic partner to a reluctant participant in a matter of hours.

"You believed it to be a good idea yesterday."

"That was when I still had a bloody hangover!"

"Considering the fact that we possess no other idea for earning money it has become a good idea by default. Now, come along." I shooed him on his way. "The Americans and their money are waiting for us."

His brows knitted, but he was unable to rebuke my logic and continued moving. "Why do I have to wear a coat? It's much too hot for such a heavy garment," he whined.

"You are an integral part of this undertaking, Kohl, along with the coat. You will understand everything in good time."

Kohl remained unconvinced and stopped again.

I sighed inwardly. It would be necessary to coach Kohl on all aspects of our undertaking.

"The coat is to add a layer of force to your role as my backup. Now, give me your best, hardest face, a face you would have glared at the enemy across no man's land. A determined face given before going over the top to engage in hand-to-hand combat, with bayonet attached."

He shrugged. "Okay."

His face darkened into a scowl, the brows fused together, his lips pursed together in a downward sneer, his eyes steely and without mercy. His face was hard and determined, worse than the British propaganda posters of the stereotypical evil Hun from the Great War. With his short cropped steel gray hair, Kohl's face would have put fear in the devil himself.

"Excellent! Such a face will have the Americans running at the thought of going up against a man such as you. You will give this exact face if an American should wave at you. It will indicate you mean business and are one not to be trifled with. Don't worry. I will be there at all times."

Kohl was not finished complaining yet. "But what if we're caught by the American military police? It's against the law to be selling on the black market. I don't want to get in any trouble. It's not good to be on the Ami's black list these days."

"If we have any luck, the military police will be out best customers. They will provide us with free protection to protect their tobacco source. In fact, they will be encouraging us to continue breaking the law since they will benefit from our actions. Besides, you're always saying how you want to get back at the Amis. This will provide you with that opportunity."

"And what about your father?" he asked in hushed tones, looking around quickly, as if my father would be hiding around the corner. "You know how he feels about black market trading. What if he finds out?"

My exasperation was rising with Kohl and his constant rebuttals and excuses. "We will worry about him when necessary." Kohl's face went a shade paler.

Nearby was a bar with loud jazz music emitting from it, known to be frequented by American enlisted servicemen.

"We will enter separately. I will take a place at the bar. You will follow me in after waiting five moments so no one knows we are together. Take a seat in the rear and ensure you are able to see me, and be seen, at all times. Only drink water so you do not become inebriated."

Kohl was not finished. "Perhaps I should be the one speaking to the Amis?"

"With your accent, they would believe you were speaking Swahili. We will continue as planned. Understood?"

He gave me a reluctant nod. I patted him on the shoulder for encouragement before entering.

It was dark and it took a moment for my eyes to become accustomed to the dim light.

I went to the bar and ordered a beer. I took a few sips before taking a deep breath. I turned my back to the bar and leaned against it, propped up by my elbows. I casually eyed the customers, not lingering on anyone. Kohl was already sitting in the back, despite my directions to wait. He was leaning forward in eagerness, his eyes locked on me, waiting for me to give him a signal for action. I continued to scan the patrons, not making eye contact with him.

Several American soldiers, comfortable with owning the place, looked at me as if I was the interloper. I met their gaze before reaching into my pocket and pulling out one of the tobacco bags.

I took my time stuffing it into my mouth, working it into a comfortable position, before indicating for the German bartender to give me a clean glass. He provided it, a puzzled look on his face. The puzzled look gave way to disgust when I spat the tobacco juice into it.

It didn't take long for the Americans to notice. Several elbowed each other, indicating me. I turned my back to them, waiting to be approached. Soon a tall, red-haired corporal approached me.

"You have chewing tobacco," he stated.

I brought up the glass and spat a long stream of juice into it, ignoring him. My silence would increase the corporal's desire.

"Where did you get it? You Germans don't grow any of it around here and you normally don't use it."

I took a sip of my beer, continuing to look straight ahead. "Why do you ask?" I countered after a lengthy pause, shifting the large wad to the other side of my mouth.

"Because maybe me and my buddies might be interested in buying some off you."

I shrugged, disinterested.

His desire begin to sharply increase.

"I'd be willing to pay a decent price."

My response was to again shrug, irritating him.

"You know, I could just take it from you." He looked at me, trying to stare me down.

I downed my beer and ordered another. I turned to face him, giving him a wide grin.

"You could, but such an action would be hazardous to your health."

His eyebrows raised in surprise. "Oh? You don't say?"

"I do say," pausing for emphasis, taking a sip of my beer and spitting out tobacco juice. "See the stout gentleman in the back wearing the trench coat?"

He looked over his shoulder. "Yeah? So what?"

"Wave to him," I ordered the corporal. He gave a slight wave and Kohl enthusiastically waved back at him with a wide smile, friendly as a found puppy. I cursed Kohl under my breath. So much for practicing his death face to intimidate the Americans.

"Enough waving. You're not asking him for a date. Have you noticed he is wearing a coat? Rather warm in here for such a heavy garment."

"So?"

"Don't you think it's odd?"

"I don't know. Yeah, I guess so." He scratched his head, becoming exasperated at my odd responses and questions.

My grin disappeared. "The reason why he is wearing a coat is because concealed underneath it is a sawed-off shotgun named Sally. I doubt you would like to make Sally's acquaintance. She's rather wicked to men who fuck her without kissing her first. She would cut you in two without so much as a smear to her lipstick. So I ask you: Do you still want to fuck with her?"

His eyes grew wide. "I will accept your silence as a no. I didn't believe you wished to meet her."

A line of perspiration appeared on the man's forehead and he took a step back. For a moment I feared my hand had been overplayed.

The tension drained from his face. He gave a laugh and offered his hand.

"What's your name, Cowboy?"

His question caught me off guard. Even though I had carefully thought through different scenarios, I had not anticipated the most obvious question from a potential client.

A name came to mind. "You may call me . . . Sam," I responded, shaking his hand, our grips firm. I glanced back to Kohl, who was still beaming at us with a wide smile. "And my colleague with the dangerous girlfriend is . . . Jack."

"I like your style, Cowboy Sam. I'm Canfield. Now, you want to do some business or not?"

I offered him the bag. "Help yourself." Canfield took a wad and placed it in his mouth along the jawline. His eyes closed as he began slowing working it, savoring it.

"Sweet and fresh. Perfectly cured. God, I can't begin to tell you how long it's been since I've had such good stuff. Can't be more than a few weeks old."

I had him. And soon, I would have his friends.

"How much?"

"This one is on the roof," I responded, opening my hands wide and giving him a broad smile. It was worth it to give away one small bag to sell all the remaining inventory and build a clientele base.

"On the roof?" he repeated.

"Yes, it is on the roof," I repeated, puzzled as to why he was questioning my generosity. "There is no cost to you."

He gave a hearty laugh. "I think you mean 'On the house'. That's okay, Cowboy. I got a whole bunch of friends who will want to get to know you, too." He indicated over his shoulders. His friends, sitting at his table, were staring at me.

"Come join us." He looked towards the back where Kohl was still smiling broadly. "But I think we'll all be more comfortable if your buttonman remains in the back with his girlfriend."

A few hours and several beers later, we were sold out of all the tobacco we had brought. I extracted myself from the drunken Americans and left. Despite wanting to keep the meeting strictly professional, the time with them had been enjoyable.

Kohl soon joined me.

"I would have liked to have a beer, too, you know," he whined as we left through a side alley. "I thought we were partners. Instead all I did was sit in the back and drink water. And it wasn't even Keaton brother water."

"It was necessary for you to remain sober to provide protection against any potential thieves. It is critical for us not to look soft to the Americans. There is a beer garden around the corner. I will buy you a drink and we can toast to our good fortune. By the way, my operative name is Cowboy Sam. When we are with customers, you are to only call me by this name."

Kohl brightened, the slight forgotten. "Code names? How covert! What is mine? I hope it's a good one."

"Your operative name is 'Buttonman Jack'. Do not forget it. I will only refer to you by it when we are with customers who do not know us, especially the Americans."

Kohl had not finished complaining. "'Buttonman Jack'? Doesn't sound very threatening to me in the least. It makes me sound like I'm a tailor," he added. "I like yours much better. Let's switch."

"The names have already been established, Kohl, and we cannot switch. The Americans created the names," I half-lied. "I believe the term 'buttonman" is connected to the American mafia, an organized crime syndicate. It is, to my understanding, a dangerous organization and not one to be trifled with. The name suits you perfectly."

"Well, alright," said Kohl, not completely convinced. "But you still owe me a beer."

All the tobacco was sold out within a week. I immediately wrote to Keaton sending him half the money. Casually, my letter mentioned there had been typhoid in Coburg and perhaps the patients would benefit from the medicinal spring water. More crates arrived two weeks later stuffed with tobacco and bottles of spring water. We began receiving shipments on a regular schedule, easily selling everything they contained. Once consumers became aware of the spring water, its demand began to rival the tobacco.

We soon reached capacity and had difficulty keeping up with demand. Our fledging business began to assume the majority of our time. With work demands from the estate continuing, it became more and more difficult to meet our distribution deadlines. Our customer base expanded from the American servicemen, once word spread, to the Coburg locals.

To meet the growing needs of our business, we enlisted Fraulein Rosen to assist us. She added a layer of credibility, easily avoiding suspicion from the authorities. Who would possibly suspect a matronly house keeper of any wrong doings? She was a shrewd and skilled bargainer, having no qualms about using her age to achieve the best deal for scarce goods. The young Americans did not stand a chance against her.

Our diets and lifestyles began to improve. I warned Fraulein Rosen to be subtle as to not attract my father's suspicion. But as I had predicted from the beginning, it was inevitable that my father discovered our operation.

He called me into his study after several months had passed.

"Hans, do you have a moment?"

"Of course, Sir."

I had not yet taken a seat before his questions began. "By any chance are you familiar with the names 'Cowboy Sam' and 'Buttonman Jack'?" His face was impassive except for a slight smile.

My heart seized. But, how much did he actually know? Or did he merely just suspect?

I had prepared for this moment. My strategy would be to deny everything while assessing the depth of his suspicion. The operation would go dark until it was determined safe to resume it.

Forcing myself to remain calm, I responded.

"They are odd names, Sir. Are they perhaps from the American cinema, a western? Although, I would say that they are not very original names for American film characters."

"Actually, my understanding is they are names being used by two Germans, here locally in Coburg."

I gave a short laugh to cover my nervousness. "Really? Then, they would be very original names for Germans, don't you agree?" My father said nothing. "Would you care for me to pour you a cognac?"

"Not at this time. Perhaps later."

My tension increased. I could feel the perspiration forming on my body. It was critical for me to leave soon, to find Kohl and to warn him. He needed to be ready, so as not to divulge anything.

"Sir? If there is nothing more, will you excuse me? There are a few things to which I need to attend," I responded, leaving his question unanswered.

I rose to leave when there was a discreet knock on the door. "Enter," responded my father.

"You requested to see me, Herr Generalleutnant?" asked Kohl. Kohl stopped in the doorway when he saw me. His face drained of color.

My father indicated a chair. "Have a seat, Andreas."

Kohl entered looking downward, dragging his feet, looking like a young schoolboy soon to be chastised by the headmaster for being caught with inappropriate photographs. Now it was _really_ over. Kohl had guilt written all over him. He would never be able to withstand even the lightest of questioning by my father.

Kohl sat down on the edge of the chair, unable to make eye contact with me. He stared down at the thick rug in mental agony.

"Andreas, what is a 'buttonman'?" asked my father.

"Part of the German mafia, isn't it?" he attempted to answer. When my father did not respond, Kohl attempted a different answer. "No? Then I believe it's a position on American football teams. They don't know soccer too well and have made up all these nonsensical positions." He gave a nervous laugh. Kohl's eyes darted between the two of us, an unbearable strain on his face.

My father turned to face me. "Hans, allow me to ask you a more direct question: Have you been selling tobacco to the American soldiers? And to a lesser degree, the local citizens?"

Kohl's head jerked up, a look of pure panic crossing his face. "Herr Generalleutnant . . ." Kohl began to interrupt.

My father waved him silent. "My question was to Hans, Andreas."

"Young Dietrich . . ." interrupted Kohl.

I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise. "I'm shocked at the thought, let alone such an accusation. What is the basis for your allegation?"

"A few days ago, I was approached by Maximillian Luther, complimenting me on the excellence of tobacco he had purchased. He believed I had arranged for its importation, and that you were selling it on my behalf." He frowned. "He wondered if instead of loose leaf tobacco, if actual cigarettes would become available."

I cursed under my breath. I should have known better than to sell any product to Luther. He gossiped more than Liesl or a fishmonger's wife. There was no use denying it any longer.

I turned to face my father. "Yes," I admitted. "Although, I would not consider it the black market since the tobacco is being procured legally."

"Where in God's name are you procuring it? Are you positive it has not been stolen from the American forces?"

"The tobacco is sent directly from a grower in Virginia. He in turn receives half the proceeds from the sales."

"How did you set up this operation?" He thought for a moment. "Is the American surgeon who operated on you the one sending the tobacco? He was from Virginia, if I remember correctly."

"No, we're actually dealing with his brother."

"My goodness, Hans! I never realized you were such an entrepreneur. The military must have been a waste of your time all these years," he exclaimed, although not unkindly. "Who else is involved besides you and Andreas? Supposedly, there is a third operative, a woman, 'Calamity Jane'."

My gaze became fixed on the wall behind him, a practiced stance I had developed when being confronted by my father over the years. I had not expected, though, to still be resorting to it at my age. I continued to avoid eye contact with Kohl. He would crack at the slightest provocation.

Kohl began squirming, his anxiety impossible for him to control. His eyes began darting back and forth between me and my father. My face remained blank, steadfast.

Kohl broke, my father not needing to suggest the name.

"Herr Generalleutnant, it was my idea. I made her do it!"

"Kohl!" I said sharply to silence him. "He's probing. He doesn't know. He has no proof." But it was too late. As with most confessors, Kohl was unable to stop once he had begun.

"We needed Fraulein Rosen to help us distribute product and to pick up payments. The authorities would not suspect a matron of her stature," Kohl continued. "Don't be angry and don't sack her. There's nowhere for her to go."

My father frowned at Kohl's concern. "The only staff ever 'sacked' here was a stable hand who struck a horse. She is a member of this family and I'm certainly not going to relieve Fraulein Rosen over something like this." My father was beginning to look amused.

"Is there anyone else involved, Hans?"

I emitted a long sigh. "No."

"No? Just the three of you Musketeers?"

"Correct," I confirmed. "There is no one else."

"Now would you pour us cognacs, Hans? Andreas needs one badly."

Kohl shot his cognac down as soon as he received the snifter. My father and I sipped ours until he broke the silence.

"How long has this been operating?"

"Almost six months."

He raised his eyebrows in respect. "Impressive you were able to keep it undetected for so long."

I gave him a nod of contrition.

"Did Herr Luther also compliment you on the spring water?" asked an eager Kohl, his lips loosened further by the relief that my father was not angry and the situation was not worse. "He's purchased several bottles of it. He is one of our best spring water customers."

I shot daggers at Kohl. If my father had not mentioned the spring water, then he was unaware of it.

"'Spring Water'? No, he did not. Are you two also importing mineral water from the doctor's brother?" My father again looked amused.

"More like 100 proof fire water," said a proud Kohl. "Young Dietrich and I had the pleasure of sampling the first bottle. Mighty fine product."

"'Spring Water'?" He frowned. "Interesting. Perhaps now would be a good time to share all the details. The evening is still young."

We detailed the operation to my father over the next hour. Instead of chastising and ordering us to cease operations, he was interested. He asked several analytical questions. His final question surprised me.

"Where is this business heading? What are your plans for it?"

I ran my hand through my hair. "It has grown quickly, and has become too large for the three of us to handle. The business has a huge potential, but we do not have the manpower nor the skills to manage it properly. It should also be made legitimate before it is seized by high-ranking authorities. I do not want to endanger Keaton for shipping untaxed products from the United States although he has not been concerned. The business with us must be minor compared to what he sells legitimately in the United States."

My father was surprised. "Not concerned? I believe shipping untaxed tobacco and liquor would be a major threat to his business. Fines, penalties, confiscation . . ."

"His brother is a senator and would handle any difficulties with the federal government if they should arise. The senator brother is considered the smart one of the family."

"I thought his brother was a doctor."

"The doctor is the younger brother. The senator is a different, older brother."

"How many Keaton brothers are there?"

I thought for a moment. "Three of which I'm aware. But, they do seem to keep popping up depending on the situation and the need." I turned to Kohl. "Kohl, your thoughts on the business' future?"

Kohl gave a sigh of relief. "I agree making it legitimate even if it might mean less money for us. Young Dietrich, the black market aspect has been very stressful to me. I don't like being a buttonman when it might be my button about to be pushed."

"Sir, you have extensive contacts in law and business. Would they be able to facilitate legitimizing the business?"

It was the first time in my life I had approached my father for assistance.

He gave us a nod. "Of course. There are several who would be interested in managing a business with so much potential. We can discuss the particulars before your next shipment arrives. Now let us drink to the success of your enterprise."

Not once had he told us what to do or not do, so unlike the man I had known since childhood.

My father's contacts moved quickly and the business was settled by late summer. While I was grateful for what it had provided, the entire operation had become stale for me. It was not the career I had envisioned, nor one I truly desired.

I approached Stegner to represent my business interests in the United States. He admitted knowing of our tobacco operation, but had looked the other way for the sake of my family.

"It would be my pleasure to represent you," he readily agreed. "The timing works out well. My term of duty is ending here and I will be returning home within the month and leaving the army. I am looking forward to resuming my law practice in Wyoming."

"You have been fair and treated Germany's soldiers and its citizens well, Stegner. You were compassionate and gave many a second chance when you could have been much harsher."

He nodded. "What purpose would it have served to grind them into the ground? The war is over."

He paused, indicating there was something else he wanted to tell me. He was stiff and formal, as if he was addressing a court of law.

"I will be sending for Charlotte and Gregor immediately after my return. She has agreed to marry me. I will formally adopt Gregor as my son after they arrive in the United States."

"Congratulations, Stegner," I said while clapping him on the shoulder. "Charlotte is a fine woman, a prize for any man. You will make her a good husband and an excellent father to the boy."

He gave a sigh of relief at my support. "We plan to be married next weekend, here in Coburg. I would like you to stand up for me, Dietrich. It was through you I was fortunate enough to meet Charlotte."

"It would be my honor, Stegner. I knew her late husband, Alexander, well. He would be pleased Charlotte and Gregor had found happiness. Again, my congratulations to you."

We drank until the wee hours of the morning, until it was far too late for him to return to the officer's quarters. Eventually, Stegner passed out and it was with effort I carried the tall man up the stairs to place him in a guest room.

Charlotte radiated beauty and happiness at their wedding. She was dressed in a cream colored suit and carried pale pink roses and lilacs from our garden. Liesl stood at her side as the maid of honor. I was on the other side for Stegner.

Afterwards, the wedding party and guests returned to the estate for a simple reception. Stegner had received a five day furlough and Liesl had agreed to watch Gregor while they honeymooned.

It felt odd to have a young child in the house. Liesl and Gregor tore through the house and grounds like banshees, both squealing with delight as they chased each other. He was a delightful child to have around, but it brought forth a sadness from within me.

My own son would be only a few years older if he had survived the war.


	20. Chapter 19

I stood in the remains of a destroyed building, unseen.

It was late afternoon and shadows were beginning to wrap the area in darkness. There was a light drizzle and a chill to the air. The few remaining street lights were dark, either broken or unserviceable, making my task of observation even more difficult.

The object of my interest was a large house, located in a semi-industrial area. The nearby buildings had been bombed, but the house had miraculously remained standing with only minimal damage. The upper stories had an occasion light, shining dimly through thick curtains. In contrast, the main floor was brightly lit.

There were a few scattered automobiles parked nearby, but most of the clients arrived and departed on foot. When any of them neared me, I slipped deeper into the shadows, not wanting to be seen.

I did not believe anyone had followed me from the train station, but I did not want to take a chance on being caught by the authorities. The request to meet at the house had been vague, but I knew the sender well enough to know there was a purpose behind the invitation. Such meetings were prohibited, and my instinct warned me of danger. But still, I had agreed to meet.

I waited for an additional thirty minutes to ensure there was no ambush. Believing it safe, I left my hiding spot. A surge of adrenalin went through me as if I was entering combat. There was a slight spark of hope within me regarding the meeting, but I pushed it aside, chastising myself for optimism.

I approached the building with rapid steps, maintaining awareness of my surroundings, taking quick notice of the entrances in case a sudden departure was necessary. There was the main entrance from the street and stairs leading from the second floor, but no other exits except for the windows. There could be a side entrance formerly used by servants, but not wanting to call attention to myself, I did not circle the building to confirm one.

I did not tarry on the steps and entered through the front door. I removed my hat and ran my hand through my hair restoring it to order. Music and laughter greeted me, rising above the thick smoke. There were more patrons inside than expected, confirming my suspicion that there must be other entrances. An occasional voice rose above the others, a mixture of both American English and German.

I scanned the room, but did not see the person who had sent me the request. It would be dangerous for me to wait for more than a few minutes. Deciding the person had been detained by the authorities or the meeting was a hoax, I turned to leave when an attractive woman approached me. She was in her late twenties, with dark hair cascading down her shoulders. Her thin dress clung to the ample curves of her body, accenting her eye-catching figure.

"Looks like you're looking for some companionship," she stated. She was German, her voice husky from too much cheap whiskey and too many cigarettes.

"I am, but you are not the one to provide it to me today, Madame."

Glancing around the room again, I was becoming uneasy about the situation, concerned it was a trap. The woman sensed my uneasiness, but misunderstood it. Not wanting to lose a client during difficult times, she placed a hand on my chest and began caressing me with a light touch, seeking to place me at ease.

"Your first time here? Are you looking for an older woman to show you how to pleasure your wife? There's no reason for embarrassment. Trust me, I have all the experience you need. I could show you a few things. Satisfaction guaranteed," she added with a coquettish smile.

Before I could reiterate that my answer was no, she leaned towards me, her hip against mine. She looked up at me from under dark lashes.

I began pulling away.

Then, she whispered, "He's waiting for you upstairs. I am to bring you to him, Major."

I looked at her in surprise. She gave me a wink.

I smiled and pulled her closer, making the moment more realistic for anyone watching. The warmth of her skin radiated through the sheer fabric of her dress and I found the sensation pleasant. It was one I had not experienced for years.

"Given your explanation, Madame, allow me to accept your proposal." I offered her my arm. She accepted it without hesitation and guided me across the room to a staircase.

"You have a presence about you, Major, which is impossible to miss," she said when we were away from others. "You are such a handsome devil, I can only imagine what you looked like in a uniform," she purred. We climbed to the third story and entered a hallway. She stopped at the end of it, in front of a door on the left.

"He's in there, alone. You won't be disturbed. The fire escape is through the side window, in case you should need to leave unexpectedly."

As I continued to hold her warm body close, the scent of her light perfume wafted up to me. Physical desire stirred within me for the first time in over a year. My eyes blatantly traveled along her body, following the curves which were all too well accented by the tight dress.

She was an attractive, and by her own word, an experienced woman. Our tryst would be nothing more than raw sex. Payment would be enough for her to ignore my scarred body. There would be no threat of emotional attachment on either side. I would leave her afterwards, in a distant city, and I would never see her again. It would be a business transaction, one of the oldest ones known to man and nothing more. It was exactly the type of encounter which would suit my current need.

She began walking away. I held her arm, preventing her from leaving, pulling her closer. "My business should conclude within a few hours. Where may I find you afterwards?"

Her reaction was unexpected, not normal from a professional woman.

Surprise and confusion swept across her face, along with a scarlet flush which was visible even underneath her thick makeup. She looked downwards, unable to meet my eyes, and tried to pull away.

Still, I held her.

"Herr Major," she stammered. "I offered to play the role of an escort so the encounter could be controlled. Instead of the coarse accent, her voice had become smooth, cultured and educated. "I am an actress."

"What?"

Before her words could be comprehended, she added, "And his daughter. You will soon understand why my charade was necessary. If you don't already suspect the reason why you are here, he will soon reveal it to you."

My face colored and I released her, backing away by several steps. Now it was I who was unable to meet her eyes. I gave her a short bow, clicking my heels together. "Forgive me, Fraulein, for misunderstanding the situation. There was no disrespect meant to you or your father."

She gave a soft laugh, her face still flushed. "I'm a better actress than I thought." She placed her hand on my arm. The gesture was benevolent, now not sexual in the least. "Major, I believe in the reason why my father requested to meet you."

She gave a soft knock to the door. A chair pushed back and someone approached on the other side of the door.

"Do what you believe is best for you, Major, but also do what is right for Germany," she said, before she turned to leave.

This time, I let her go, my eyes following her. My attention was drawn from her when a narrow strip of wood slid aside from the door, revealing a peephole. A man with strong grey eyes glanced out to see who was at the door. The wood slit closed followed by the door unlocking and opening.

The man motioned me in and relocked the door behind me. I immediately came to attention.

"Herr Oberst." I gave him a sharp nod.

"Dietrich," he responded offering me his hand. "Thank you for accepting my invitation. Have a seat." I placed my hat on the bed and sat at a small, wooden table. He sat across from me, reminding me of the final days of the war.

Oberst Roland von Kleist had been my commanding officer in the war's concluding years. I had been assigned to his immediate command in France after escaping North Africa. He had been an excellent commanding officer, calm under fire with a penetrating insight into how the enemy would react. His restrained leadership style had been a contrast to my own. I favored a riskier approach, making bold moves against the enemy.

I had last seen von Kleist in a collapsing basement when he had ordered me on my final mission. He had been ill then, raked with a deep cough and spitting up blood. Not long after me, he had been captured by the Americans. I would have expected him to have succumbed to his lingering illness while in captivity. I was surprised when I received his letter, requesting to meet.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Please." He went to a sideboard where a service was waiting and poured us each a cup. The smell of the fragrant brew filled the room. I knew it would be real coffee, not the bitter ersatz which was normally available in Germany these days.

As I sipped the coffee, its warmth filled me. I waited for von Kleist to share with me the reason for my summons. Even after all which had passed, the arrangement felt familiar.

He sat across from me.

"I was surprised, and truly relieved, to discover you had survived the war, my boy. When we lost contact with your unit and did not hear from you again, I feared the worst." He looked at me much as a father would to a son. "Sending you on your final mission was the most difficult order I gave during the war. We both knew it was suicidal."

I nodded, agreeing. He could not be more surprised I had survived than I was.

"I knew, though, you had had some success. Our reconnaissance confirmed the enemy had been delayed. I knew the delay was due to your unit's sacrifice."

"There was no other unit available, Herr Oberst. Your orders were necessary to allow other units the opportunity to retreat."

"No, there were other units available. But, only your unit had the experience and your level of command," he corrected me in a firm voice. "Tell me what happened."

"We were able to slip up on the enemy and attack from the rear. It was diversionary at best. It did not take long for the American's overwhelming strength to disable the little armor we had remaining. We lost radio capability almost from the first salvo. When the attack ended, we were caught far behind enemy lines in an overlooked pocket. We took refuge in an abandoned cottage for the night. It was there I ordered my colors to be burned."

I paused, remembering one of the most difficult moments in my career. I had never lost my colors before. It took me a moment before I could continue. "We left before daybreak the next morning. We almost succeeded in returning to our lines when we were overran. We stood little chance, the Americans were moving too fast for us."

"And?" von Kleist asked.

"Leutnant Hahn and I became casualties when we were overrun—."

"Both officers?" he interrupted. "Odd."

"I fell back to provide a diversion for my men to escape. I was hit and Hahn returned for me. He was also hit."

He shook his head, a slight smile creasing his face. "Only a Dietrich would pull such a stunt. It is uncanny how much you are like your father."

I ignored his comment. "My remaining men made it to the cover of the forest. It was there the Americans called out to them to surrender, which they did. They all survived the war." I looked past him, my next words difficult to admit.

"Hahn and I were found by an American commando unit and taken to an Allied field hospital. I spent over a month recovering before being interrogated by American Intelligence for several weeks." I looked downwards, my emotions rising within me, remembering my final session with Braddock. I regained my strength and continued with a grin. "I gave the Ami no information which was not already public knowledge."

"I would have expected no less from you, Dietrich."

"And you, Sir? What became of you afterwards?"

"I was held captive for over a year, first by the British and then, by the Americans. The accommodations were actually not bad considering the situation. It was mentally draining, with all the constant questions. As with you, the Americans were keenly interested in the aspect of our strategic command. I was released six months ago for compassionate reasons, due to my illness. Fortunately for me, my health has since improved."

His lack of details made me suspect there was more to his release. An officer of his rank and experience would have been held longer.

Had he been turned by the Americans? Should he be trusted?

"Sir, how did you know of my survival?"

"Few Germans received the commendations you did, Dietrich, and even fewer survived the war. Your survival was soon common knowledge. There is a great interest in you."

I raised my eyebrows. I did not know and I had never suspected. "An interest in? By whom?"

His eyes met mine. "The Americans."

"The Americans?" I sneered. "Am I one of the strategic details you shared with them, prior to your release?"

"They were already familiar with you, Dietrich. It was not necessary for me to inform them."

Von Kleist was quiet for a few moments. Through the walls came the sounds of the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings punctuated by low groans.

"Interesting choice of meeting locations, Herr Oberst," I commented.

"The location serves its purpose. Can you think of a better place to meet? Men arriving and leaving at all hours will gather no notice. Besides, half the men here are American officials. It is best to hide in plain sight."

"True," I agreed.

He grinned. "It was actually my daughter's idea. She was the young woman who brought you upstairs."

My face colored. "I was unaware you had a daughter until she introduced herself."

My response elicited an amused and knowing look from von Kleist. "From your response, my daughter is a better actress than I suspected."

My cheeks burned hotter. Von Kleist took pity on me and did not press further.

"Who would have thought in 1939 we would be discussing your survival, along with Germany's past and future, in a house of ill repute?" he asked, shaking his head.

"Is this the reason you requested to meet, Sir? As the past cannot be changed, then I can only assume I am here to discuss Germany's future along with my own?"

"You always were straightforward, Dietrich." He smiled at my frankness. "It is a trait of a good leader. And, you were the epitome of an excellent leader. Four years at the academy, five years pre-war and almost six years combat experience, the list goes on," he stated.

I gave him a slight smile at the compliment. Von Kleist pulled out a pack of American cigarettes and offered me one before taking one himself. I lit both our cigarettes, pulling deeply on mine. It was the first one I had had in months. I was so used to chewing tobacco, the smoke burned my throat for the first few seconds. First coffee, now American cigarettes. Von Kleist must be working with the Americans.

I looked at him, waiting expectantly. It was obvious he was stalling.

"Sir, with all due respect, you must have more of an agenda than war reminisces and small talk."

His voice was crisp and professional when he replied. "Yes, you are correct. I asked you here for a more important reason." He paused before continuing. "You were aware I never joined the National Socialist Party and also that I despised Hitler."

"I was aware of your political thoughts, Herr Oberst. Why are you reiterating them now?"

He held up a hand, indicating for me to be patient. "The one thing I agreed with Hitler on was the threat the Bolsheviks posed. They now have a strong foothold in eastern Germany and Europe. It will be only a matter of time before they move to consolidate their power in Western Europe."

"And the other Allies, Sir? I doubt they, especially the Americans, will allow the Soviets to overrun Europe when they denied the same to Hitler."

"I don't believe so either, but, in the end, the main battlefield will be Germany. The Allies will care little if it is destroyed."

"It already is destroyed," I reminded him. "It will take a lifetime to reconstruct."

"With nuclear weapons, it will be worse. Now is the time to begin preparations for when the Soviets will make their move. They need to be contained before Germany becomes the final battleground between the West and East. We need to be able to defend Germany and create a new German Wehrmacht."

He paused and I looked at him, waiting for his actual reason of summoning me.

"Dietrich, there is an opportunity for you to return to the military."

I was taken aback. My suspicions regarding the meeting had been confirmed. The small spark of hope I had smothered earlier had reignited within me. "Herr Oberst, there is a danger discussing such things. What you are suggesting is forbidden by the Allies."

He looked amused. "Something being forbidden has not stopped you in the past. Are you interested?" he pressed.

"The Wehrmacht is in the process of being dismantled, Herr Oberst, not built up. There is little remaining of it now. There will be nothing a year from now."

He remained silent, his face blank. Von Kleist would not reveal details until I provided some level of interest.

"Are you here on behalf of the Americans, Herr Oberst?"

"I am here on behalf of Germany and her future," he countered, without denying my accusation.

"If it is serving in the American army, my answer is no," I responded without hesitation. "I took an oath to serve Hitler and Germany when receiving my commission. My oath to Hitler ended upon his death, but my oath to Germany still stands, and will remain so until my own death. I will not betray her trust nor my honor, to serve the Americans."

"It would be serving in the German Heer."

I snorted at the suggestion. "And the Allies? They're just going to sit back and allow Germany to build a new Heer, a little more than a year after the war?"

"The French are in no position to do anything. Britain is reeling, its empire slipping away faster than it can grasp it."

"You forgot the Americans. They were the major victors and have the most control and influence and will have for the foreseeable future."

"Ah, yes! The Americans." His slight smile confirmed my original thoughts.

"I need additional details before considering your proposal." I blew a plume of smoke to the ceiling and remained silent, waiting.

He immediately answered. "The position would be to assume leadership of the military academy and manage it."

I waved my cigarette in the air, indicating to him the information was not enough and asking for more.

"You will be the kommandant with complete control and jurisdiction over the institution. To warn you, though," he paused, "an American will officially head the board."

I knew the Americans had to be involved. Von Kleist must be working in some capacity with the Americans. But was he working _for_ the Americans?

I threw out my suspicion. "The Americans are behind this, aren't they, Herr Oberst?"

"Partly," he admitted. "Officially, the Americans are firm Allies of the Soviets. Unofficially, they recognize Stalin will want to expand his empire. The vast regions of the east have been invaded too many times in the past for Stalin to allow it to happen again. Eastern Germany is already lost under the Bolsheviks control. The Soviets will never willingly release their grip upon it, God help it. But I, and others, want to halt their domination before all of Germany falls under their control. It is to the advantage of the Americans for us to succeed."

My silence had made von Kleist uneasy. He attempted to take a different tact with me.

"The Soviets are close to Coburg, Dietrich, but the Americans are even closer. It is to your advantage to cooperate with the Americans since they have the power to withstand the Soviets if they should choose to push across the border."

While the threat was vague, it was one I had considered. It was a very real and future danger. "I am very much aware of the proximity of the Soviets to my family and our estate, Herr Oberst. I am also very aware of the danger they represent. It is not necessary for you to remind me."

Von Kleist passed me his cigarettes and I lit us both fresh ones. We sat smoking, staring each other.

I was the one to break the silence.

"I have never been a staff officer, Herr Oberst, and have had little desire to become one. My background, skills and experience is in the field, which is where I prefer to be posted. Kommandant Schnass extended me several opportunities to return to the academy before the war, but I did not accept them. Administration is not my strength, nor is it my desired career."

"Perhaps previously, but you must realize the situation has changed. Before, you would _have _been in a supporting administrative role. Now, you will _be_ the academy's kommandant, leading it into the future. All of your battlefield and analysis experience could be used to rejuvenate the academy and eventually, the Wehrmacht and Germany. It is a role which fits your background and your skill set superbly."

His words hung on the air.

"What is the Academy's current state?" I asked

He grinned. "Ah, so you are interested?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps."

"It survived the war fairly intact, there was little damage to the buildings or the grounds. Neglected, though, since mid-war. It will need some work to restore it."

"Professors? Cadets?"

"Many of the professors remain, although the military curriculum is understandably outdated. As for cadets, there's a little under one hundred remaining. There are a handful of elderly men working as groundskeepers along with a few women taking care of the residences."

One hundred.

There had been over seven hundred total cadets at any given time during my attendance. And, Schnass had grown the student body after my graduation. With the war imminent, he had foreseen there would be a demand for quality officers.

"Why me? Or, have you approached others and none accepted?"

"You are the only one I want for the position. I have approached no others. But others will be needed, for your staff and to fill various other roles."

"I will not be a pawn of the Americans, Herr Oberst. I expect to personally recruit my immediate staff to ensure they are the right ones and that they will work well with me."

He gave a slight grin. "It goes without saying. I take it you accept?"

My answer was without hesitation. As described by von Kleist, it was the opportunity and challenge I had been seeking. I could not pass on it. "Yes."

His expression broadened from a grin into a wide smile. "An American brigadier general, General Leonard Trevors is the head of the board for the academy. He is a graduate of the American military academy at West Point. He was called the 'Wildcat of Wyoming' for a reason. Superb in the field. You two have similar styles and should work well together."

"I have heard of him."

"He, of course, is aware of our meeting today. Knowing your affectionate feelings for the Americans, I thought it best for him not to be present."

"If the Ami had been here, Herr Oberst, I would have immediately left without listening to your proposal. Is he to be trusted? Our meeting is enough justification to be arrested and sentenced to a lengthy prison term. We can't afford for him to have a change of heart a few years from now."

"Trevors is decent for an American, and fair. He wants you, and Germany, to succeed. It is in the best interest of the Americans for us to succeed."

"What is the time-frame for me to arrive?" I asked.

"January. There are a few details we need to finalize the meantime. It will give us time to place things in motion and to allow you time to put your personal affairs in order. Once you arrive, there is much work that needs to be completed."

A little over three months from now. The time would fly by.

"I know you, Dietrich, you're not one to sit back and overanalyze a situation. Your firm commitment is needed now, before we can move forward."

I gave him a nod. "I have already accepted. You have my assurance I will not change my mind. I did not make the decision lightly, for my family's sake, yours or for Germany. But I need your guarantee my family will be protected in case the Americans withdraw their support."

"You have my guarantee that no harm will come to them."

"I am assuming a risk, Herr Oberst, by becoming involved in something deemed illegal. I willingly do so, but expect a long term commitment in return. If the Americans become bored after a few years and turn their attention elsewhere, I do not want my time nor efforts wasted."

"Your expectations are reasonable. Given the Bolsheviks don't appear to be leaving anytime soon, your long term expectation is also realistic. The Americans are also planning on staying to counterbalance the Bolsheviks."

Von Kleist took a deep drag on his cigarette, thinking, before releasing a plume of smoke to the ceiling.

"The academy will need to be passed off as a university with a military background. Are you married?" von Kleist asked.

"No, I am not." I frowned. "Surely, the position does not require a wife."

"My apologies, Dietrich. It quite slipped my mind about you losing your fiancée in the war." His voice returned to its normal firm cadence. "No, it is not a requirement, although it would lend an air of respectability to the position."

"Schnass was unmarried and he was highly respected. Not to mention, very successful during his tenure as Kommandant."

"True, but he was not trying to pass off this institution as a university."

"I have no desire to be married, Herr Oberst. I will follow Kommandant Schnass' lead and remain a bachelor."

His eyebrows raised. "Understood." He became brisk and business like. "I had submitted the documentation for your promotion to Oberstleutnant before the war ended, although it was not made official. Now the promotion will be recognized and you will officially have the rank."

I frowned. "Will the lower rank create a lack of credibility? I'm not bringing this forth to earn rank, but to ensure the academy is successful. It has been customary for the kommandant position to rate someone of a higher rank."

"It will be fine, Dietrich. One final note . . . Your salary will be in a hard currency, useful given the current reality of Germany's situation."

"Sterling or Swiss Francs," I stated.

He cocked an eyebrow, amused. "Not American dollars? Hold a dislike for their currency, too, eh Dietrich?"

"Possessing Sterling or Francs will be easier to explain since we are in Europe. If we are to pass off the academy as solely a German institution, I cannot be seen as a lackey for the Americans," I explained, although this was not my sole reason.

Von Kleist stubbed out his cigarette and sat back smiling. "You are a prize worth having, Dietrich." His smile became a bit smug. "You know, Trevors did not believe I could win you over."

A part of me also could not believe he had, either.

He rose, indicating the meeting was over. "I will notify the board of your acceptance. They will be pleased at the good news. It will take years, but this is a first step for Germany to return to normalcy and self-reliance."

He scribbled an address on a scrap piece of paper. "If necessary, you can reach me through Trevors." I glanced at the information before placing it in an inner pocket. "I will be in contact, Dietrich. My daughter will see you out."

I gave him a slight bow and clicked my heels together. "Herr Oberst."

Outside the room, von Kleist's daughter appeared from an alcove.

"The results of your meeting?"

"They were positive, Fraulein."

"I am glad to hear the good news."

While I offered her my arm, I attempted to keep a distance between us, but she pulled me closer.

"It is more realistic for us to be close," she explained while we walked down the stairs.

She released my arm when we reached the door. "Good day, Herr Oberstleutnant," she said calling me by my newly reinstated rank.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "You knew what the end result of the meeting would be?"

"From what my father has told me of you over the years, I felt confident you would accept his offer." Her eyes met mine. "I am glad you did not disappoint him. Or, me."

She was a beautiful woman. Desire stirred within me again. I took her hand and brought it to my lips.

"Again, I apologize for my behavior, Fraulein . . .?"

"Ingried."

"Perhaps another time, another place, Ingried, under normal conditions?"

Her eyes were sparkling. "I truly look forward to the occasion."

I traveled by a circuitous route to the train station to ensure there was no one following me. Boarding the train just as it was leaving the station, I observed if any other passengers made a sudden movement to board. If they had, I would have immediately jumped off and caught a different train from another station.

Satisfied, I found a seat in a rear car and sat alone. Most of the other passengers slept given the hour, but I remained awake due to my racing mind. The devastated landscape passed by unseen. The train arrived in Coburg as dawn was breaking.

A beautiful autumn morning greeted me and my walk home was in the brisk air. I would inform my father and Schnass of my decision upon my return. Both would be pleased for me, especially Schnass, as I was assuming his former position. Left unsaid would be my mother's worry. As a dutiful soldier's wife, she would accept the risk as one worth taking.

I would wait to hear from von Kleist on the next steps. In the meantime, I would prepare myself, the business and the estate for my permanent absence.


	21. Chapter 20

I was at the pond, clearing it of nearly five years of overgrowth. The tangle of reeds and rushes was preventing it from draining properly through the creek. A marsh was forming and it would only become worse the longer the thinning was delayed. If nothing was done, the rising water would soon overtake the nearby wooden chairs and tables which sat on the bank.

I paused, taking in the solitude. The area had always been peaceful and restful. I would stroll down to it when home on leave, lost in thought, to feed the wild geese or to sketch. More than once I had escorted young women, brought home under the guise of meeting my parents, there.

The pond was a convenient destination during these visits as I was never allowed to be alone with the girl elsewhere. In a naive attempt to foil any inappropriate behavior, my parents would purposely place the young woman in a room at the opposite extreme of the house from mine. My parents' unspoken rule of no unmarried sex under their roof was not one to be broken. I had no qualms, though, about breaking it when no longer actually under their roof.

For us to have some chance of intimacy, I would use the excuse of wanting to show my date the beautiful sunset from the pond. My parents never suspected the true motive of my suggestion.

We would have sex hidden in the tall grass still warm from the sun. The sex would be hard and fast, our urgency leaving us no time to remove our clothes. It was critical to return before my parents began to suspect anything was amiss. These encounters were all that much more delicious and satisfying because they had been forbidden.

Only Liesl knew of my true motives. With pretend wide eyes, she would innocently inquire about how we had enjoyed the sunset.

I pushed these thoughts from my mind.

Those carefree days from before the war were in the past. There was no reason to dwell on what I had done in the past with women whose names I was unable to recall. Women were no longer part of my life.

I returned to the task at hand.

I had been working on the project for the last week and was finally beginning to see progress. When they could spare a moment, my father and Kohl would join me, appearing without notice, holding scythes. The three of us would work together saying little, focused on completing the task in the next few weeks before the rains would arrive.

Kohl or I would curse under our breath when a knife-like reed cut into our ungloved hands. My father would frown and look at us when we did so, a reminder to watch our language. He was against cursing and expected the family to maintain the same high moral standard he kept for himself.

Despite his age, my father kept up with us with little effort. Indeed, there were times he cleared more than Kohl or myself. I noticed it without comment, and could only pray to have the same health and fortitude when at his age.

We had cleared a great deal, but much work remained. A part of me believed the work would never be finished. Not just here, at this remote pond in Coburg, but everywhere in Germany. The cities would take a lifetime to rebuild. How could the horror and destruction leveled against us ever be removed? No, it never would be erased and we would never be allowed to forget we had initiated it.

I continued working, bundling the reeds on the bank to be burned later as kindling. I needed the work as much as the pond did. The intensive labor was therapeutic for me, helping me sleep through the night while rebuilding my body's strength.

My work slowed and I came to a stop again.

The day was beautiful and I chastised myself for not taking note of it earlier. Autumn was my favorite season and there were too many times I came close to never witnessing it again. The rushes swayed in the slight breeze which carried the rich scent of the earth. There was a faint remnant of summer in the air, but the approach of winter was also on its breath. Soon, the power of the sun would fade, not to be regained for months. Already, each day, it was hugging the horizon a little closer. There would be only a few remaining warm days to enjoy until spring made its reappearance.

I looked up at the sun, calculating the time to be approximately 15:00. How frequently had I performed the same simple determination when I had been in Africa? It had been necessary to use this ageless method to tell time. It had been impossible to wear a watch due to the burning of one's skin from the hot metal.

A sudden longing for Africa arose within me. It had been some time since I had desired the barren land and the little it had to offer. I leaned against the scythe, allowing my thoughts to drift again into the past. Had over three years really already passed since my evacuation? Since Meyer's reappearance, Africa had crossed my mind more and more frequently, invading my waking and nighttime moments. Occasional remembrances had now become daily thoughts. For some unknown reason, Africa was calling me, beckoning me with longing arms.

Suddenly, I wanted to feel the sun on my bare skin.

With a grin, I removed my shirts, tossing them onto the grass. I had always wanted to remove my blouse while in Africa, to feel its softer sun in the autumn. But, being an officer, it was a satisfaction I never allowed myself. Home, and currently not an officer, it was a pleasure to be enjoyed when no one was with me.

The sun was soothing on my scarred back, its warmth loosening the tightness of the damaged skin. My body was pale to what it had been in the past. I had been outdoors the majority of this past summer yet my body's darkness was nothing compared to the rich tan I had acquired in Africa over the span of two years. My skin had been burned as dark as of native when there. Now, there was no mistaking my European paleness.

My grin faded.

I returned to work, bringing down the reeds at a steady pace. Time was too precious to waste. There were so many projects to be completed in the few short months before I would be leaving.

Only a few minutes had passed before a bicycle came recklessly racing down the path. Liesl could be heard calling out to me even before she came into view.

"Hans! Hans!"

Arriving, she brought the bicycle to a stop and leaned it against a table. Her face was bright with excitement, obviously eager to share some news with me. Whatever it was, it must be important. She had visited the pond infrequently since we were children.

"Have you arrived to assist me, my dear Liesl?" I teased her. "We have a few hours of daylight remaining. There are several spades and scythes for you to put to good use."

She looked down her nose at me with good humor. "Don't be such a ninny, Hans. You know I don't do dirt. No, I'm here for something much more important."

I bated her with my silence.

She soon fell for it, eager to share her news. "Aren't you wondering what brings me here? Well, aren't you going to guess?"

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I had indeed found myself wondering what she had to share. But, still, I remained patient. "My instinct tells me it won't be long before you inform me."

I casually spat out a long string of tobacco juice.

Liesl crinkled her nose.

"That is the most disgusting habit! I could shoot that troll Keaton for introducing you and Coburg to it. Half of the city is chewing and spitting. It's bad enough with the Americans, one expects them to be crude and vulgar. But, a German from a family like ours?"

"It provides food, doesn't it? Or would you rather return to eating turnips at every meal?"

"Umm, no."

She was squirming with excitement and I decided to play along to appease her.

"Is it . . ." I began to guess.

She interrupted, saving me the effort of continuing.

"A telegram was delivered to you a few minutes ago! Papa thought you should know. It must be something important, don't you think? Only important messages are sent by telegram due to the cost. Who has the money to send telegrams these days?" She delivered her information in short, quick bursts, her eagerness preventing her from speaking long sentences.

Any interest dissipated. The moment darkened for me, the brightness snatched away. Despite Liesl's enthusiasm and exactly for the reasons she had stated, a telegram did not bode well for the recipient.

"And who would be sending me a telegram?" I queried.

But I already knew who had sent it.

I knew.

Mein Gott, how I knew who had sent the telegram. And, why he had sent it.

Liesl's voice pulled me back.

"I don't know who sent it," she responded honestly. "If Papa hadn't been there, you know I would have opened it," she added mischievously. "You would never have been the wiser . . ." Her smile froze on her face to be replaced by a look of horror.

What had consumed her with such a fright?

I turned to see if there was someone behind me, but there was no one. She sharply drew in her breath, distressed, and stifled a scream.

"Liesl?" Her stare bit through me. "Is something wrong?"

She stood rooted to the spot.

Her eyes were fixated on my massive scar, jaggedly running from my chest to my hips, down my side until it disappeared underneath my trousers. The scar was starkly white against my tanned skin, the edges still showing a faint pink. Her eyes darted to my back, her attention moving to the scars of where I had almost been flogged to death.

Her hands had gone up to cover her face in horror, much as if she were a child who had seen a monster.

But I was the monster who had frightened her.

I retrieved my shirts. Without comment, I pulled my undershirt onto my perspiring body, not bothering to dry off with a towel. The shirt soon followed, both tucked tightly into my trousers. The ugliness of my body was now hidden from plain view.

"Hans," she stammered. "What happened to you?"

"Father and Mother surely informed you of the seriousness of my war injuries." I returned to clearing the rushes, wanting the embarrassing moment to end.

"Yes, they did, but they did not mention an injury to your back. Those scars, they're older than those from the other wounds. I've never seen anything like them. It looks like you were . . ."

She did not finish her sentence. I did not help her to draw her conclusion of what evil had befallen me.

"Hans? What happened to your back? Who did this to you, and when? Was it the Allies?" She fired off her questions, not waiting for an answer before moving unto the next one.

I answered none of them. "It is an event I do not discuss, Liesl. Please leave it."

"Which army did it? The British? The Americans? The Italians? I heard they really didn't like fighting with the Germans. Or was it the Bedouins? They can be little more than savages, from stories told to me. You were there for over two years, plenty of time for them to snatch you and . . ."

"Drop it, Liesl. I will not discuss it." My voice was sharp, in a tone rarely used with her.

She flinched at my harshness, but she continued pressing me.

"Is your back the reason why you holed yourself up here when you first returned? Are you ashamed of how you look, ashamed of your Wehrmacht service somehow causing it?" she asked with curiosity in her voice. "I know you didn't have them before."

During our lives we had discussed everything between us including sex, but this was the one thing we had never discussed: My service and near death for Nazi Germany.

"No," I replied viciously. "I have nothing to be ashamed about. I served honorably. Why? Are you ashamed of my service?" I countered, turning it back to her. "Are you ashamed of my looks? I can at least cover up my scars, while many men cannot hide their war disabilities."

"Of course not! We've been nothing but proud of you. All of us, including me." She was silent for a moment and before she returned to her original mission.

"Don't you want to know who sent the telegram and why it was sent?"

"Not particularly. I have no desire to receive telegrams. My preference is to remain here, living a quiet life for the next few months, away from the world."

"Well, your stupid telegram is up at the house. Do with it what you want," she said with a huff. She turned without looking, jumped unto the bicycle and rode away.

I continued for several minutes, postponing the inevitability which was waiting for me. But it was time to face the future which had now become my present. I had waited twelve years for this moment. In the end, it had happened exactly as the fortune-teller had predicted.

My work at the pond would need to wait until I could take leave from the academy next year. I would not return from Wyoming in time to complete the clearing before the bad weather arrived. I would request Kohl to bring the furniture into the barn. The wood should be re-seasoned so it would be ready for the spring.

I looked around the pond and smiled. A sudden awareness sprang to me. The next woman I brought here would be my wife. One day, I would bring her here and I would make love to her properly in the tall, warm grass.

I gathered up the tools and started up to the tool shed located near the barn. Cleaning and oiling them, I placed them in their spots. Behind the shed was a water pump and I cleaned away my perspiration and grime under the sluice of cold water.

I contemplated returning to my room and changing into a fresh shirt. I decided against it. Things had already been set in motion and it would be impossible to prevent them from happening. If I had realized one thing through all of the events which had taken place since that fateful trip to Africa so many years ago, it was that one's destiny could not be avoided.

I entered the main house and was greeted by Fraulein Rosen.

"Ah, Herr Major! Your family and the Kommandant are in the sitting room waiting for you. Seems like there is some excitement brewing for you. Your father has your telegram."

They stared at me when I entered, their faces indicating their curiosity. My father gestured to the telegram on the sideboard which waited for me, not saying a word.

Opening it, the simple words leapt from the thin paper:

_"__Need help. Can you arrive by October and stay six weeks? S Troy_

_Dawson, Wyoming"_

In an instant, the fortune-teller's words from twelve years prior came flooding back. Then, they had made no sense. Now, the final unanswered pieces of the puzzle of how Troy and I would be joined after the war had slid into place. As the revelation hit, a swell of emotions surged within me while accompanying images flashed across my mind:

Attacked convoys, uneasy truces, respect mixed with orders to kill, Troy and I each saving the life of the other.

The images ended with a fire.

A fire? I could see it in my mind's eye, but I was certain I had not been there to witness it first-hand. It had occurred recently, and somewhere far away, in a land untouched by the war's destruction.

I walked over to the window. I stared out at the expanse of green in front of me, the flimsy telegram still in my hand. The grounds of the estate were finally beginning to recover. As, was I. Was this the time for me to leave my family, the estate and Germany? They too were at a pivotal crossroads and were also in need of my help.

My mind was racing and my heart rate had increased. We were no longer enemies, but Sam Troy still managed to have an impact upon me.

Behind me, I heard someone clear their throat. My family was becoming restless, curious about the telegram's content. It was finally my father who broke the silence.

"What is in the telegram, Hans? Is it bad news?"

Bad news? I wanted to laugh out loud. What qualified as bad news? How much worse could our lives become since the war ended? The life we had known was over. We were picking up the straws of what little remained of it at our conqueror's whim, barely subsisting. Only just now did we even have enough to eat due to the selling of tobacco, provided by who else? An American.

I waited a moment before answering. "Unknown, but probably."

"Who sent the telegram?"

"Someone from my past is asking for assistance. He is requesting I immediately travel to Wyoming and stay for several weeks."

"Wyoming?" my father echoed with a frown. "In the western United States?"

"Yes.

"Did you know him from before the war or during?" asked my father.

The war, the war. All time and events were referenced and marked by the war.

"During. The telegram is from Sergeant Sam Troy." I paused before continuing. "We fought against each other in North Africa for over a year," I added, not elaborating further. My back was still to my family.

Liesl chimed in. "You mean the telegram is from the leader of the American commando team? The one from North Africa you used to write home about, the one who almost killed you several times? The one you said was as much of an irritation as having sand in your bathing suit?"

"Yes, he is the one and same. Liesl, Sergeant Troy saved my life at the end of the war, along with my Leutnant's." I finally turned to face my family. My mother had a look of concern on her face, while Liesl's was burning with curiosity. Schnass' face was bright with excitement. Only my father's was impassive.

"Oh! Papa, isn't he the one who . . .?" my sister started to ask.

"Yes," my father said interrupting my sister. I looked at them, not understanding what she was referencing.

"And isn't he the one who brought us . . ."

"Liesl, enough," my father said in a sharp voice.

Still to this day, my father is the only force I have ever known with the power to shut Liesl up. She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth snapping shut. My sister needed no further warning.

"Sir, what is Liesl referencing?" My mother and sister exchanged glances while my father's focus remained on me.

"If it was in regards to Sergeant Troy and him becoming involved with the family, I have a right to know."

My father emitted a sigh, an act unlike him. "In the final days, everything was in complete chaos, Hans, the fronts imploding, the Soviets threatening from the East. It had become impossible to obtain any information about your status since January 1945. We had no idea where you were or on which front you were serving.

"After he found you and took you to the field hospital, Sergeant Troy must have remembered you were from Coburg. He personally delivered news of your condition. He then escorted us to you. If it hadn't been for him, we might not have known if you were alive.

"He made arrangements for us to stay in nearby lodging so we could be with you until we were forced to leave. The American was very helpful and compassionate during this difficult time. He asked for nothing in return."

"There's more. What else is Liesl referencing?" I pressed.

"While you were recovering, he brought us food and petrol coupons on several occasions. He knew how challenging it was for us so soon after the war ended. There were so little food stocks in the area. If he hadn't assisted us, I don't know how we would have survived during those difficult early days."

Troy had been here, to my home, eighteen months ago. Now there was an additional piece of my private life he knew.

"Why wasn't I informed?"

His response was blunt and not softened. "You were dying. There was no need for you to worry about our well-being."

Troy's actions had been sincere. I had witnessed his compassion too many times in the desert to believe otherwise.

"We attempted to offer him payment of silver or jewelry, but he refused to accept anything. He said he had done it because it was the right thing to do and . . ."

"And what?"

"He said you would have done nothing less for him or for his family. Sergeant Troy is an honest and honorable man."

The room went quiet, everyone's focus on the telegram.

Troy had always proven himself to be deadly resourceful with the most minimal of men and supplies. How desperate must his situation be for him to seek assistance from a former enemy in a faraway land?

After a moment, my father spoke again.

"Did Sergeant Troy provide any details on how he needs your assistance?"

I shook my head and turned back to the window, my hands behind my back, clasping the thin telegram. My father crossed the room to stand beside me.

"It is unlikely you will receive any additional information from him given the immediate time frame he is requesting. There is no time for a correspondence."

"Sir, I am also needed here. The family and Germany are my priorities. I have given my commitment to the academy. I cannot forsake it." My mind was still in turmoil, unsure of why Troy would need me, what I could possibly offer him.

"We do you need you here," my father said with confidence. "But for the sergeant to reach so far means he is in greater need than us at this time. The academy has been here for over a hundred years and has survived two world wars. It will still be here when you return."

He paused. "My instinct tells me you had already made your decision when you first read the telegram. You should go with your initial decision," he said factually. "It is the one which is normally right."

I turned to face him, wanting to protest, but he spoke the truth. An unexplainable force was drawing me to the United States.

I must go.

It would be impossible for me to deny Troy's request. Everything else must wait. I would notify von Kleist that an emergency was calling me away for the next few months, but that I would return by January.

I gave my father a slight nod. "Yes, I made my decision, as soon as I read his request."

He placed his hands on my shoulders for emphasis.

"My boy, you have truly proved yourself the German officer and the man I always knew you to be. Now go to Sergeant Troy at his time of need."


	22. Epilogue

They were fanned out in front of the partially burned barn, looking for any hot spots or remaining sparks. The air was heavy with smoke, causing everyone to cough. There was a noticeable tension from the fire, not just from the animals but also from the people.

"We were lucky, Sam," said the elderly man.

"Yeah, we're lucky they're a bunch of idiots, Red Hawk," replied Troy. His shirt was black from the soot and his dark hair white from the ashes which still hung in the air. "We saved all the stock, there was minimal damage to the barn and no one got hurt." He shook his head. "They can't even burn a barn right. No wonder none of them served in the war. Even one of my greenest privates could have handled this job their first time out." Troy shook his head in disgust. "Won't take us long to fix the barn."

"Maybe he meant it as a warning."

Troy looked Red Hawk directly in the eye. "Cedric doesn't warn. No, we got lucky because of his men's stupidity."

Troy walked over to a middle aged woman, who was intently smothering embers before they could reignite the fire.

"Ma," said Troy. "I'm sorry. They got through. I didn't stop them."

"Sam, there's no reason for you to be sorry. It's Cedric's goons who should be sorry. It could be worse. His laughable attempts against us are nothing compared to what happened in my grandfather's range war stories."

Troy put his hands on her shoulders. "True, but it's gonna get worse, Ma. It's going to get ugly real fast from here on out. Cedric wants the land, and he won't take no for an answer."

"The answer has always been no and it will continue to be no. He will never have our land as long as there is a breath in my body." Her voice was fierce and determined. She stared out over the land, lit by the moon. Troy could see the smudge marks on her face, contrasting sharply with her fair skin. There were no tears, only the strength he had always known.

Troy shook his head in disgust. "Our hired hands will be gone by morning, if they aren't already. None of them showed up to fight the fire."

His mother looked surprised. "We paid the hands well, above going wages plus room and board."

"Can't blame the hands for leaving, Ma. They're scared. If he hasn't already, Cedric will buy them off like he did the others."

She shrugged. "Oh, well. It is what it is," she responded stoically. "The German POWs were better workers, anyway. It's too bad they were unable to stay on."

"Good thing we were able to hold unto them long enough for the livestock auction and to get the crops in. Two less things we have to worry about. We have money in the bank to tide us over until next year."

"True enough."

Troy turned to his mother. "Ma, it's time to take a stand. We can't run this place with just the four of us. David is stuck in England, and I won't have Bubs interrupt her final year of residency."

She looked at her oldest son with resignation. "I was hoping we could put it off longer, only use them as a last resort."

"We're at that point."

"When will you send for the other men?"

"I'll leave before first light tomorrow. I'll head over to Poxley tomorrow and send the telegrams from there. Don't want the Dawson telegraph office to tip off Cedric on what we're doing."

"How long until they arrive?"

Troy looked at the damaged barn before meeting her eyes. "Don't know if any of them are available or if they would want to take out the next couple of months from their lives. If they're willing, the guys here in the States, within a week. The ones coming from Europe, it would be at least a few weeks even if they left tomorrow."

A cautious look came over her face. "Are you sure about the German?"

"About asking him or if he'll accept?"

"Probably a little of both," she responded honestly. "Why should he come here? What reason would he have for helping his former enemy? Besides, Germany is having enough difficulties for him to worry about without getting involved in ours."

"Can't answer your questions. But I trust him as much as the other three. Good in a fight, strong background. If the Nazis couldn't get to him, Cedric never will." Troy laughed at the thought of Dietrich being bought by Cedric. Not only was the man too honorable, he was too rich.

"The situation is still bad over there. He might not receive the wire. Or, he might not be able to come. He was supposedly engaged, and he's probably married by this time. He might not want to leave his wife after barely surviving the war."

"Or," she countered, "He simply might not want to become involved in your problems. Is that what you're thinking, Sam?"

"We won't know until we know, will we?" he added. "He always was unpredictable."

"You saved his life, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I would never want him to come here out of obligation. The reason should be because he wants to. Besides, he saved my life, too."

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Many thanks to my beta reader for her continued support. Thank you, Susan, for all your hard work and thoughts over the years. Without you, I would be unable to bring Dietrich's story to life.


End file.
